UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


WALK  IN  HELLAS 


OR 


THE  OLD  IN  THE  NEW. 


BY  DENTON  J.   SNIDER. 


NEW  EDITION.     TWO  PARTS  IX  ONE. 


ST.  LOUIS: 

SIGMA  PUBLISHING  CO., 
210  PINE  STREET. 

1892. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  years  1881  and  1882, 

BY  DENTON  J.  SNIDER, 
in  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  Washington,  D.  C. 


...."'.."  T      . 

•  "    ••••••   • 


CONTENTS. 


I.  FROM  ATHENS  TO  PBNTELIOUS. 

Plan  of  the  Walk. — Equipment. — At  Chalandri.— 
Recinato.  — Pentelicus. 

II.  FROM  PENTBLICUS  TO  PARNES. 

The  Monastery   and  the  Parthenon.  —  Plaisance. — 
AtKephissia.  —  The  Brigands. 

III.  FROM  PARNES  TO  MARATHON. 

The  Scotch  Lassie.  —  Helen.  —  The  Three  Eaces  in 
Greece.  —  At  Marathon.  —  Speech  in  the  Wineshop. 

IV.  MARATHON. 

Modern  Scenes.  —  The  Ancient  Battle. — Its  Three 
Stages.  — Its  Meaning. 

V.  FROM  MARATHON  TO  MARCOPOULO. 

Aristides.  —  The     Great    Idea.  —  The    Donkey.  - 
Rain.  —  Greek  Mythology. 

VI.  RAINY  DAY  AT  MARCOPOULO. 

OT  Albanians.  — Scauderbeg.  —  Amphiaraus.  —  Neme- 

sis. —  Brigands.  —  Sundown. 

VII.  FROM  MARCOPOULO  TO  AULIS. 

Orient,    Hellas,     America.  —  Fording    the  •  Asopus. 
Socrates.  — Delium.  —  The  Nestor  of  Aulis. 

VIII.  AULIS  AND  CHALKIS. 

The  Two  Shepherdesses.  — The  Bazaar  atChalkis.  — 
The  Schoolmaster.  —  Iphigenia. 

IX.  FROM  AULIS  TO  THEBES. 

The  Symbol  —  Varvouillya.  —  Corinna  of  Tanagra. — 
The Wallachian  Village.  —Entrance  to  an  Old  City. 

X.  THEBES  AND  PLAT^EA. 

Oedipus  and  Autigoue.  —  PJndar. —  Platfea    and    its 
Battle.  — Epaminondas. 

(3) 


317458 


\  CONTENTS. 

XI.  PROM  THEBES  TO  LEBEDEIA. 

The    Sphinx. — Thespia. — Helicon.  — « Hesiod    and 
his  Works  and  Days. 

XII.  STOP  AT  LEBEDEIA. 

The  Town  and  Nature.  — Trophonius.  —  Hesiod  and 
his  Theogony. —  A  Greek  Family. 

XIII.  FROM  LEBEDEIA  TO  CELS3RONEIA. 

The  Greek  Soldier.  —  The  Chaaronean   Lion.  —  Plu- 
tarch. 

XIV.  FROM  CH^RONEIA  TO  ARACHOBA. 

Panopeus.  —  Daulis.  — The  Demarch. 

XV.  NEW  LIFE  OF  OLD  PARNASSUS. 

Arachoba.  —  Parnassian     Scenes.  —  The     Goddess 
Pallas. 

XVI.  TWO  WORLDS  OF  PARNASSUS. 

Arachoba.  —  The  Chorus.  —  Fallmerayer. — Customs. 

XVII.  POLITICAL  PARNASSUS. 

Arachoba. — Pappayohanes    and  Pappakosta. — The 
Embassy. 

XVIII.  RAMBLES  OVER  PARNASSUS. 

Arachoba.  —  Thermopylae. —  The  Father  of  History. 

XIX.  THE  DELPHIC  ORACLE. 

Arachoba. — Delphi.  —  Delphic  Scenery.  — The  God. 

XX.  THE  DELPHIC  TOWN. 

Delphi. —  Gymnasium,  Stadion.— Theater,    Temple, 
Town -Hall. 

XXI.  THE  DELPHIC  NOTE  BOOK. 

Delphi.  —  Random  Notes  of  the  Traveler. 

XXII.  THE  DELPHIC  FAUN. 

Delphi.  —  The   Table-land.  —  The  Cave.  —  Dimitri. 

XXIII.  THE  RELIGION  OF  BEAUTY. 

Delphi.  —  Its  Religion  and  Art.  —  Decline. 

IIXIV.  THE  GREAT  TRANSITION. 

Delphi.  —  From  the  Heathen  to  the  Christian  World. 


/.  FROM  ATHENS  TO  PENTELICUS. 

I  propose  to  give  you  some  account  of  a  trip  through 
Greece  in  a  series  of  talks.  I  do  not  know  that  I  have 
any  thing  very  new  or  entertaining  to  offer  ;  I  feel,  how- 
ever, that  I  may  take  for  granted  that  you  are  interested 
in  this  journey  as  friends  of  myself.  It  is  doubtful 
whether  you  would  care  much  to  read  what  I  shall  tell  you 
in  the  book  of  a  stranger,  but  a  personal  conversation 
with  you  may  lay  some  additional  claim  to  your  interest. 
For  this  reason,  too,  I  shall  speak  with  unabashed  fre- 
quency in  the  first  person ;  I  have  gone  through  these 
experiences,  and  am  now  telling  them  to  you.  There  is 
no  disguising  the  fact ;  it  is  I,  and  nobody  else,  — 
though  I  would  like,  for  the  sake  of  modesty,  to  hide  this 
/  in  some  misty  third  person,  or  spirit  him  away  into  the 
roomy  editorial  TFe,  if  you  were  not  sure  to  catch  me  in 
the  act.  Sometimes,  indeed,  I  may  try  to  free  myself  for 
a  moment  of  this  uncomfortable  person ;  but  in  general, 
brazen-faced  L  shall  speak  of  him  with  little  or  no  at- 
tempt at  disguise. 

It  is  not  the  information,  not  the  statistics,  not  the  so- 
called  hard  facts  which  I  propose  to  give  you,  but  some- 
thing very  different.  Can  1  impress  upon  you  this  land- 
scape, these  hills  and  valleys  with  the  sunlight  in  which 
they  softly  repose ;  can  I  call  up  the  emotions  —  the  joy, 
the  serenity,  the  exaltation  in  which  they  are  forever 
steeped ;  can  I  leave  with  you  an  image  of  this  modern 

(5) 


6  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

Greek  life  as  it  unfolds  to  the  eye  of  the  tourist  in  humble 
but  spontaneous  reality ;  but,  most  of  all,  can  I  therein 
impart  to  you,  in  its  true  mood  and  coloring,  some  adum- 
bration of  that  old  Greek  world  on  account  of  which  alone 
modern  Greece  has  chief  interest  for  us  to-day?  Noth- 
ing must  be  eschewed  for  the  sake  of  dignity  or  of  con- 
ventionality, if  I  understand  your  spirit ;  we  are  deter- 
mined to  see,  to  feel,  nay,  as  far  as  possible,  to  live  this 
life  as  it  now  rises  before  us,  with  the  assurance  that 
whatever  exists  has  some  right  to  be,  and  deserves  by  the 
very  fact  of  its  existing  in  the  world  to  be  treated  with 
sympathetic  appreciation. 

Moreover,  I  intend  to  tell  you  many  things  which  are 
small  and  unimportant.  But  little  matters,  if  they  be 
chosen  with  some  insight,  are  the  true  characters  by 
which  we  may  spell  out  a  nation  or  an  age ;  small  things 
often  most  vividly  image  the  greatest  deeds,  the  pro- 
foundest  thoughts.  You  know  that  the  key-stone  of  the 
arch  may  be  a  pebble ;  the  one  pithy  anecdote  may  be 
the  concentrated  utterance  of  centuries.  And  Greece 
herself  is  small,  very  small  compared  to  most  countries, 
but  what  does  she  not  stand  for  ?  Exceeding  small  she  is  ; 
still  that  is  just  her  gift,  to  make  herself  with  her  small- 
ness  the  abiding  image  of  what  is  worthiest  and  most 
beautiful  iu  the  world's  history.  Small  things  we  shall 
not  despise,  when  our  very  theme,  Greece  herself,  is  so 
small. 

Nor  shall  I  be  very  particular  about  a  rigidly  consecu- 
tive narration.  We  —  all  of  us,  I  hope  —  shall  loiter 
along  the  wayside,  go  and  pick  in  the  fields  a  classical 
flower,  ramble  through  the  ruins,  turn  about  often  and 
look  at  the  mountains  and  the  clouds,  stop  and  wash  our 
faces  in  a  clear  running  brook,  thinking  that  Pericles  or 
some  other  great  man,  or  even  some  god  may  have  done 
the  same  thing  in  the  same  place.  Like  merry  children 
let  loose  in  the  meadows  on  the  first  day  of  spring,  we 
shall  wander  around  this  fair  Hellas — itself  the  eternal 
spring  of  the  world  —  going  pretty  much  any  whither, 
without  any  definite  purpose,  wherever  a  flower  attracts 
our  attention ;  and  then  we  shall  return  home  with  the 


FROM  ATHENS  TO  PENTELICUS.  7 

spoils  of  the  journey  woven  into  a  many-colored  garland. 
Such  a  garland  I  am  going  to  try  to  weave  now ;  its  string 
will  be  my  path,  stretching  through  Northern  Greece,  to 
Marathon  where  the  struggle  between  Orient  and  Occi- 
dent was  decided ;  thence  to  Aulis  where  the  Greek  heroes 
shipped  for  Troy  to  recover  Helen ;  thence  to  Thebes 
storied  with  tragic  destinies ;  thence  to  Delphi,  home  of 
the  God  of  Light,  well-head  of  prophecy  and  poesy. 
Perchance  we  shall  cross  the  Corinthian  Gulf,  sweep 
around  the  Peloponnesus,  and  return  by  the  Isthmus  of 
Corinth  to  Athens,  whence  all  of  us  together  at  this  mo- 
ment are  getting  ready  to  start.  But  let  not  too  much  be 
promised  beforehand,  for  the  way  is  long  and  the  thread 
is  slender. 

It  is  indeed  a  slender  thread,  but  on  it  I  intend  to 
string  many  a  gem  and  many  a  pearl,  if  I  can  find  them  ; 
smooth  stones  and  glass  beads  of  very  different  values 
shall  not  be  thrown  away ;  —  all  are  to  be  pierced  and 
threaded  just  as  I  pick  them  up  on  my  path.  A  variegated 
string  it  will  doubtless  be  ;  —  reflections,  reminiscences, 
reciuato  ;  men,  women,  donkeys  —  all  strung  together, 
side  by  side.  But  on  this  modern  garland  you  will  see, 
if  I  dare  think  of  success,  many  a  shape  hinting  of 
antique  beauty ;  nay,  the  whole  of  it  will,  I  hope,  fall  into 
your  eyes  with  the  free  and  joyous  undulations  of  a  Greek 
outline,  rounded  off  into  harmonious  unity.  Kalon 
taxeibodion  —  God  speed  you,  my  hearers,  on  your 
journey ;  as  for  me,  I  am  safe,  but  you  may  have  a  hard 
time  of  it. 

After  inquiring  in  vain  for  a  companion  who  would  like 
to  make  the  tour  of  Greece  with  me  on  foot,  I  concluded 
to  set  out  alone.  Everybody  whom  I  consulted,  par- 
ticularly the  members  of  the  American  colony  at  Athens, 
were  inclined  to  dissuade  me.  The  reasons  alleged  against 
making  such  a  trip  were  chiefly  two :  first,  that  it  was 
dangerous;  secondly,  that  the  traveler  would  be  subject 
to  great  inconveniences.  It  was  said  that  there  were 
still  brigands  lurking  in  the  mountains  and  in  covert 
places  ;  some  people  intimated  that  the  entire  rural  popu- 
lation were  always  on  the  point  of  turning  into  a  tempo- 


8  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

rary  state  of  brigandage.  There  were  even  Greeks  at 
Athens  who  were  not  free  from  such  apprehensions,  and 
doubtfully  shook  the  head  at  the  proposition  of  a  solitary 
walk  through  the  provinces.  Such  are  the  warnings  to 
be  heard  at  the  capital ;  the  result  is  that  very  few 
travelers  penetrate  into  the  more  remote,  yet  by  all  means 
the  most  interesting  districts  of  Greece.  The  unfortunate 
case  of  the  party  of  foreign  excursionists  who  were 
captured  by  brigands  in  the  year  1870  not  far  from  Mara- 
thon is  always  cited,  and  still  works  vividly  upon  the 
imagination  of  both  tourist  and  citizen. 

But  besides  the  danger,  the  representations  concerning 
the  state  of  the  roads  and  the  hotels  were  sufficient  to  call 
up  the  second  thought  in  the  mind  of  the  traveler  before 
undertaking  such  a  journey.  It  is  true  that  there  are 
not  many  carriage  roads  in  Greece,  and  that  these  run 
between  some  of  the  larger  towns  only ;  but  mule  paths 
amply  plain  and  broad  enough  for  the  pedestrian  are  to 
be  found  leading  every-where.  It  is  also  true  that  there 
are  no  hostelries  in  the  rural  portions  of  Greece ;  but  the 
hospitality  of  the  citizen  takes  their  place ;  even  the 
humblest  peasant  will  share  with  the  traveler  his  loaf,  his 
wine  and  his  olives.  Always  I  found  shelter  somewhere ; 
always  too  I  was  greeted,  as  I  entered  the  rustic  cabin, 
with  the  friendliest  signs  of  welcome. 

These  admonitions,  however,  repeated  to  me  often 
during  a  stay  of  nearly  three  months  at  Athens,  were  not 
without  their  influence.  I  hardly  knew  whether  I  had 
better  undertake  the  trip  or  not.  I  did  not  like  the  idea 
of  being  robbed  on  the  highway,  or  of  being  captured  by 
brigands  and  held  for  a  high  ransom  which,  I  felt  certain, 
they  would  never  get.  The  question  of  accommodation 
gave  me  less  trouble ;  the  food  which  the  peasant  could 
plough  on,  I  knew  I  could  walk  on,  —  and  the  bed  which 
he  could  sleep  on,  I  could  snore  on.  But  I  was  growing 
dissatisfied  with  Athens,  not  because  it  was  an  unpleasant 
place  to  live  in,  but  because  it  was  altogether  too  Eu- 
ropean, too  much  of  a  repetition  of  the  Occident,  it  was 
not  Greek  enough.  Much  and  memorable  had  there  been 
seen  and  duly  noted ;  above  all,  its  two  glorious  temples, 


FROM  ATHENS  TO  PENTEL1CUS. 

still  the  most  perfect  remains  of  antiquity,  and  to-day  the 
most  beautiful  architectural  efforts  of  the  world.  Many 
an  ancient  custom  had  in  living  realit}'  been  caught  from 
the  street  and  the  market-place,  and  had  been  treasured ; 
all  the  famous  spots  of  the  antique  violet-crowned  city 
had  been  visited  and  studiously  pondered ;  the  serene 
climate,  the  transparent  atmosphere,  the  happy  blue  skies 
had  sunk  deep  within,  and,  I  might  hope,  had  left  a  last- 
ing image  upon  the  soul.  But  the  chief  thing  was,  that 
I  had  made  myself  sufficiently  acquainted  with  modern 
Greek  to  converse  with  reasonable  fluency  on  any  topic 
that  was  likely  to  arise  during  a  trip  through  the 
provinces. 

Of  the  tongue  spoken  by  the  Greeks  of  to-day  there  are 
two  leading  dialects.  The  first  is  the  language  of  society 
at  Athens,  of  the  newspapers,  of  the  professors  at  the 
University,  and  of  the  cultivated  people  generally ;  it 
may  be  called  modern  Greek.  The  second  is  the  lan- 
guage of  the  common  people  —  Romaic,  as  they  them- 
selves call  it.  Modern  Greek  has  a  continual  tendency 
to  approach  ancient  Greek,  on  account  of  the  influence 
of  classical  learning.  Some  of  the  newspapers  the  visit- 
or will  at  once  pick  up  and  attempt  to  read ;  he  will 
laugh,  for  he  will  see  old  Xenophon  trying  to  put  on 
European  frock  and  breeches.  The  effect  is  at  first 
ludicrous ;  the  whole  print  seems  like  a  modern  travesty 
on  ancient  Greek.  Strangely  new  is  the  tinge  given  to 
old  words  ;  still  more  strangely  new  are  the  compounds 
made  up  of  old  words  in  order  to  express  the  needs  and 
relations  of  modern  life.  Railroad,  steamboat,  constitu- 
tion —  here  they  all  come,  peeping  with  sly  mockery  out 
of  their  Greek,masks.  A  comic  masquerade  of  old  Greek 
forms  it  seems  ;  this  is  the  first  impression. 

But  the  Romaic  or  the  popular  tongue  is  more  interest- 
ing, to  me  at  least ;  it  has  that  spontaneity  which  always 
gushes  from  the  hearts  of  the  people,  and  which  a  culti- 
vated language  is  apt  to  file  away,  as  being  too  rude  for 
polished  society.  It  is  muddied,  you  will  soon  discover, 
with  Turkish  and  other  foreign  elements  ;  still  it  has  turns 
which  will  carry  you  back  to  old  Homer.  Moreover,  it 


10  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

has  a  vast  body  of  popular  poetry,  altogether  the  most 
original  product  of  modern  Greece. 

I  felt,  therefore,  that  I  had  not  found  at  Athens  alto- 
gether what  I  had  come  to  Greece  in  search  of.  It  was  a 
feeling  of  disappointment,  not  intense,  yet  not  satisfac- 
tory. What  it  was  that  I  missed,  what  it  was  that  could 
not  be  found  there,  I  was  not  able  to  tell  then,  nor  do  I 
know  that  I  am  able  to  tell  now. 

What  had  I  to  come  to  Greece  for?  Such  was  the 
question  which  began  to  insist  stoutly  upon  an  answer. 
Manifestly  with  some  very  eager  and  enthusiastic  pur- 
pose, yet  quite  indefinite,  very  difficult  to  lay  down  in 
words.  It  was  some  aspiration  following  down  from 
youth,  some  image  drawn  from  Greek  classic  lore,  some 
dream  perchance,  sent  from  above  by  the  gods,  through 
the  golden  lips  of  that  greatest  of  terrestrial  magicians, 
ancient  Homer.  It  was  something  or  other  quite  im- 
palpable but  very  persistent,  that  is  certain  —  an  airy 
shape,  fading  into  indistinctness  ;  still  it  never  ceased  to 
beckon,  and  sometimes  in  unconscious  moments  to  pluck 
me  by  the  arm,  whispering:  "Behold,  this  is  not  the 
place,  I  dwell  not  here  —  go  further,  and  you  will  find 
me."  I  could  truly  answer  in  skeptical  exclamation: 
"What,  still  further!  I  have  crossed  the  ocean,  run 
through  Europe  with  mine  eye  mainly  fixed  on  that  image  ; 
still  it  beckons  me  forward  after  such  a  chase  —  what  if  it 
be  but  a  phantasm?  Shall  I  again  follow?"  Of  course  I 
shall,  and  at  once  I  pack  up  two  shirts  and  two  books, 
and  set  out. 

Now  if  the  unrestf  ul  but  happy  wanderer  were  to  give 
you  some  word  or  expression  by  which  you  might  catch 
at  the  enticing  form  always  floating  before  him,  he  would 
perchance  say,  it  is  the  image  of  Helen.  He  is  in  pursuit 
of  Helen ;  her  above  all  human  and  divine  personalities 
he  desires  to  behold,  even  speak  with  face  to  face,  and 
possibly  to  possess.  But  who  is  Helen  ?  You  are  aware 
that  on  her  account  the  Trojan  war  was  fought,  that  all 
Greece  when  she  was  stolen  mustered  a  vast  arma- 
ment and  heroically  struggled  ten  years  for  her  recovery, 
and  did  recover  her  and  bring  her  back  to  her  native  land. 


FROM  ATHENS  TO  PENTELICU8.  11 

Nor  is  the  legend  wanting  that  she  is  still  there  in  her 
Grecian  home  just  the  blooming  bride  who  was  once  led 
away  by  the  youthful  Menelaos  to  the  shining  palace  of 
Sparta.  So  the  wanderer  is  going  to  have  his  Iliad  too  — 
an  Iliad  not  fought  and  sung,  but  walked  and  perchance 
dreamed,  for  the  possession  of  Helen  —  the  most  beauti- 
ful woman  of  Greece,  nay,  the  most  beautiful  woman  of 
the  world.  There  she  stands  in  the  soft  moonlight  of 
fable,  statue-like,  just  before  the  entrance  to  the  temple 
of  History.  Thither  the  cloudy  image,  rapidly  growing 
more  distinct  and  more  persistent,  beckons  and  points. 

It  is  likely  that  you  will  be  inclined  to  ask  concerning 
the  material  equipment  for  such  an  expedition.  Of  ex- 
ternal things,  the  less  you  have,  the  better.  One  change 
of  apparel  in  a  water-proof  knapsack  I  advise,  since  you 
are  certain  of  being  overtaken  by  showers  during  the 
winter  and  spring  —  and  these  are  the  only  seasons  pos- 
sible for  traveling  afoot  in  Greece.  Your  body  must  be 
thoroughly  trained  to  the  use  of  water  in  large  quantities 
continuously  applied ;  rains  will  descend,  heavy  and  pro- 
tracted, and  there  are  no  friendly  houses  standing  at  short 
intervals  along  the  road  —  the  peasants  are  collected  into 
villages  which  are  usually  hours  apart ;  nor  is  there  the 
hospitable  tree  with  wide-spreading  branches  to  shelter 
you,  for  in  our  American  sense  of  the  word,  trees  do  not 
exist  in  Greece  except  in  a  few  remote  provinces.  One 
india-rubber  drinking  cup  which  you  can  double  up  and 
put  in  your  pocket,  do  not  forget ;  it  should  have  a  long 
string  attached  so  that  you  can  let  it  down  into  a  well  or 
cavernous  spring.  Two  good  maps  —  an  ancient  and  a 
modern  one — are  very  necessary.  Take  an  additional 
pair  of  shoes?  if  you  can  carry  them ;  for  of  all  countries 
Greece  is  the  hardest  on  shoes.  It  was  with  the  greatest 
difficulty  that  I  succeeded  in  keeping  myself  shod,  as  I 
traveled  over  its  rocky  pathways. 

In  regard  to  the  inner  equipment,  the  spiritual  outfit  of 
the  man,  just  the  opposite  principle  holds  true  —  the  more 
you  bring  along,  the  better.  The  more  you  take  with  you 
the  more  you  will  be  likely  to  bring  back ;  indeed  it  may 
be  said  in  this  respect  that  unless  you  carry  a  good  deal 


12  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

along,  you  will  fetch  but  little  back.  Consider  merely 
the  geography  of  Greece,  from  the  Homeric  catalogue,  to 
the  traveler,  Pausnnias!  You  can  not  afford  to  leave  be- 
hind the  mythology,  history,  poetry ;  here  along  our  path, 
under  our  very  feet  they  sprang  into  life  and  took  on  their 
beautiful  forms  ;  here  is  the  vessel,  but  you  must  furnish 
the  wine.  Every  spot  is  full,  provided  you  bring  the 
fullness  with  you.  But  the  chief  requisite  for  the  traveler 
in  Greece  is,  in  my  judgment,  a  deep  and  passionate 
longing  to  see  Helen  already  mentioned.  With  her  image 
hovering  before  him,  he  leaps  through  the  valleys  and 
skims  over  the  mountain  tops  sandal-winged ;  the  old  po- 
etic world  rises  up  before  his  eyes,  robed  in  its  native 
colors  and  enchased  in  the  setting  of  Nature  in  which  it 
came  into  existence. 

Still  you  must  not  think,  from  these  driving  fancies, 
that  the  benefits  of  the  Greek  trip  are  purely  imaginary. 
Here  too  prevails  that  law  which  is  the  law  of  the  whole 
spiritual  world  —  a  law  which  was  once  expressed  by  a 
very  high  authority  in  this  paradoxical  fashion:  "  Unto 
him  that  hath  shall  be  given,  but  from  him  that  hath  not 
shall  be  taken  away  even  that  which  he  hath."  From  him 
that  hath  absolutely  no  classical  knowledge  or  no  Greek 
enthusiasm,  shall  be  taken  away  all  pleasures  of  travel, 
all  comprehension  of  the  Hellenic  world  ;  out  of  his  pres- 
ence will  flee  all  those  joyous  images  which  sweetly  lend 
their  company  to  the  true-hearted  traveler.  In  their  stead 
the  soured  tourist  will  notice  only  crops  of  stones  on  his 
path  —  which  will  make  him  lose  his  temper  on  account 
of  their  bruising  his  feet ;  he  will  behold  only  petticoated 
men  wearing  fustanellas  —  which  will  degrade  his  lofty 
notion  of  the  dignity  of  his  own  sex ;  he  will  see  only  bare- 
legged women  washing  at  the  fountain  —  which  will  give 
a  strong  shock  to  his  innate  modesty.  Alas,  he  will  cry, 
where  is  that  Greek  ideal,  about  which  somebody  said  to 
somebody  else  who  told  me  that  it  was  the  highest  type 
of  beauty?  What  monstrous  liars  are  these  Greeks,  any 
how,  both  ancient  and  modern !  Then  he  will  go  home 
and  write  his  book.  But  that  other  person,  so  different, 
who  feels  no  inner  calling  to  be  uncomfortable  himself  or 


FROM  ATHENS  TO  PENTELICU8.  13 

to  make  all  posterity  uncomfortable  with  his  discomforts 
carefully  set  down  in  writing,  who  has  in  his  soul  some 
trace  of  the  genuine  Greek  mood  together  with  some 
knowledge  of  the  old  Greek  world,  who  is  filled  with  an 
undying  love  of  its  beauty  and  with  a  genuine  enthusiasm 
iii  its  pursuit  —  what  will  he  not  see  ?  —  He  will  see  Helen, 
or  at  least  he  will  catch  many  a  new  and  more  distinct 
glimpse  of  her. 

I  felt,  therefore,  that  I  must  go,  notwithstanding  the 
good-uatured  admonitions  of  friends,  and  I  concluded  to 
set  out  alone  and  afoot.  These  were  the  two  qualifications 
for  the  journey :  absence  of  a  companion  and  possession 
of  a  pair  of  good  walking  legs.  The  lack  of  an  associate  I 
at  first  regretted,  but  I  soon  came  to  believe  that  this  sup- 
posed misfortunate  was  a  special  blessing  sent  from  above 
against  my  will  by  the  Gods.  For  one  man  will  be  taken  in, 
when  two  men  will  be  turned  away ;  two  men  are  company 
for  eacli  other,  one  man  must  find  his  company  among 
the  people.  These  will  be  inclined  to  talk  to  one  man, 
whereas  they  will  usually  pass  by  two.  Besides,  there  is 
the  inestimable  liberty  of  going  and  staying  where  and 
when  you  please,  without  having  to  compromise  with  a 
companion  who  is  likely  to  have  different  tastes  from 
yourself.  As  to  brigands,  I  felt  somewhat  nervous,  I 
confess,  but  I  resolved  to  proceed  with  reasonable  pre- 
caution, and  if  matters  began  to  look  squally,  I  would 
put  back  toward  Athens  with  decent  precipitation. 

It  was  on  a  bright  sunny  morning  —  Jan.  28th,  1879,  is 
the  exact  date  —  that  I  started  and  with  a  brisk  walk 
passed  up  the  Kephissia  road  which  leads  to  Mount  Pen- 
telicus,  the  first  stopping  point  in  my  destined  course. 
The  crests  of, the  mountain  rise  hooded  with  clouds  in  the 
distance  before  me,  while  the  Monastery  of  Penteli  lies 
nestled  in  secrecy  under  the  summits.  Recollect,  it  is 
mid  winter,  yet  the  mild  and  bracing  air  has  in  it  nothing 
severe  or  inclement.  But  that  sun  —  of  all  countries  on 
earth,  the  sun  is  most  near  and  dear  to  Greece.  When 
it  passes  under  a  cloud  at  this  season,  a  chill,  raw  wind 
springs  up,  the  temperature  sinks  rapidly,  the  landscape 
is  darkened  into  gloom,  and  man  falls  out  of  the  happiest 


14  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

mood  into  despondency,  or  is  assailed  with  a  feeling  of 
general  wretchedness.  Never  have  I  been  jerked 
through  such  rapid  changes  of  spirits  by  physical  muta- 
tions as  during  my  stay  at  Athens.  But  this  morning 
Helius  has  risen  in  full  splendor,  while  the  frosty  but 
genial  air  lifts  the  body  from  the  earth  and  bears  it  along 
on  lightsome  wings. 

It  is  quite  impossible,  I  know,  to  transfer  to  the  vision 
of  a  listener,  scenes  of  detail ;  but  I  beg  you  to  take  my 
eyes  now  and  look  about  yourselves  as  you  pass  out  on  that 
Kephissia  road  with  me  slightly  to  the  northeast.  Yon- 
der on  the  right  lies  Mount  Hymettus,  rounded  off  to  a 
beautiful  swell  along  the  horizon ;  through  the  transpar- 
ent air  that  lies  between,  reach  out  your  hand ;  you  will 
be  surprised  that  you  do  not  touch  it.  The  top  of  its 
ridge  is  thrown  into  a  wavy  line  against  the  mild  blue  sky ; 
on  that  line  far  up  there,  as  in  the  paths  of  the  Gods,  you 
would  fain  move  with  stately  tread,  to  be  seen  of  all  the 
world  below.  Treacherously  near  does  the  mountain 
seem,  distant  not  more  than  a  good  morning  walk ;  but  it 
will  take  you  the  better  part  of  the  day  to  reach  the  sum- 
mit of  that  ridge  and  return  to  the  city.  I  know  it,  for 
I  started  to  walk  out  thither  once  before  breakfast ; 
noon-day  swept  over  my  head  in  a  chariot  of  fire 
and  watered  his  steeds  in  the  sea  ere  I  got  my  sup- 
per. Of  all  1,he  mountains  in  Attica,  Hymettus  will  grow 
most  dear  to  you ;  there  is  a  honeyed  caress  in  its  look 
as  it  lies  up  yonder  in  the  sun-beams ;  then  it  is  never 
out  of  view,  it  is  always  hanging  over  you  with  its  smiles. 
Nor  will  a  close  acquaintance  lessen  its  charms ;  whole 
days  have  I  wandered  over  it  alone,  without  feeling  soli- 
tariness or  fatigue.  To-day,  however,  we  shah"  not  go 
there. 

Look  now  to  the  left ;  here  is  Mount  Lycabettus,  at 
whose  foot  the  i*oad  winds  along,  and  whose  rather  abrupt 
peak  rises  over  the  city.  Its  summit  and  slopes  must  in 
antiquity  have  been  covered  with  statues  and  colonnades, 
gymnasiums  and  temples ;  now  the  whole  mountain  is  al- 
most bare,  though  the  modern  city  is  beginning  to  creep 
up  its  sides.  On  its  top  is  a  small  Byzantine  chapel  in- 


FROM.  ATHENS  TO  PENTELICUS.  15 

habited  by  a  solitary  monk,  who  lives  from  the  alms  of 
the  believers  who  toil  up  to  the  summit,  nor  will  he  refuse 
the  pence  of  the  unbeliever.  As  you  saunter  along  the 
road  below  in  full  Greek  mood,  you  will  look  up  and  be- 
hold the  far-shining  columns  with  frieze  and  pediment 
that  once  lay  in  sunny  repose  on  the  hillside  ;  a  forest  of 
glistening  marble  springs  from  the  slant,  and  robes  the 
entire  mountain  in  the  white  folds  of  beauty.  Nor  will 
you  fail  to  see  in  this  neighborhood  the  Cynosarges  and 
Lyceum,  famous  haunts  of  philosophers,  for  here  Thought 
too  built  her  most  enduring  temple,  and  from  this  spot 
went  forth  to  conquer  the  world.  The  groves  of  plane- 
trees,  the  shady  walks,  the  youths  wrestling  in  the 
palaestra,  Aristotle  walking  amid  a  group  of  eager  dis- 
ciples and  talking  of  the  highest  themes,  you  must  bring 
along  with  you,  for  they  are  not  here  now.  But  the  river 
Ilissus  is  here,  just  at  the  road-side;  yet  it  is  no  river, 
not  even  a  respectable  brook ;  in  the  summer  it  is  entirely 
dry,  and  in  the  rainy  season,  as  at  present,  it  often  has 
no  water.  As  I  go  down  into  its  bed,  and  walk  up  its 
pebbly  bottom,  I  can  not  find  water  enough  in  it  to  wash 
my  hands.  Yet  the  Ilissus  is  a  far  more  famous  river 
than  our  Mississippi,  and  will  probably  remain  so ;  its 
name  has  been  forever  preserved  by  beauty  in  the  trans- 
parent amber  of  ancient  literature.  No  such  amber  has 
yet  been  found  on  the  banks  of  the  turbid  Father  of 
Waters,  notwithstanding  his  color. 

A  similar  fact  we  shall  notice  everywhere  here  with 
deep  marvel  and  questioning :  all  things  seem  physically 
small  in  comparison  to  their  fame  and  influence.  Can  it 
be,  then,  that  spiritual  power  is  submerged  and  lost  in 
bulk?  Streams  are  small,  mountains  are  not  large,  towns 
are  small  and  Were  so  in  antiquity,  Greece  itself  is  hardly 
larger  than  some  American  counties,  Athens  in  her  palm- 
iest days  had  scarcely  half  the  inhabitants  of  the  city  of 
St.  Louis,  even  according  to  the  last  census.  It  is  the 
nature  of  all  things  Grecian,  that  they  seem  to  be  charac- 
ters in  which,  though  small,  we  are  able  to  read  the 
Universe.  Though  the  types  be  little,  in  them  can  be 
seen  all,  just  as  well  as  if  they  were  large.  Strange  it  is 


16  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

that,  in  the  intellectual  culture  of  the  world,  this  small 
country  has  played  the  most  important  part:  more 
important  than  Rome,  more  important  than  even  Judea. 
Still  more  strange  is  this  fact,  that  its  influence  is  in- 
creasing to-day,  while  all  other  ancient  influences  are 
relatively  declining.  Why  is  it  thus  ?  —  why  is  it  thus  ? 
we  ask  ourselves  trudging  along  up  this  famous  little 
waterless  river  of  Ilissus.  The  question  will  often  recur 
on  our  journey ;  it  is  indeed  the  question  for  which  a 
Greek  journey  may  well  be  undertaken ;  with  the  right 
answer  to  it,  much  else  in  this  world  will  be  answered. 

But  turn  around  now  and  take  a  final  good  look  at  the 
city,  before  we  pass  the  spur  of  Lycabettus,  when  it  will 
disappear  behind  the  mountain.  While  we  have  been 
going  on  the  road,  often  I  have  turned  about  and  looked 
back,  though  I  could  not  tell  you  so.  The  palace  of  King 
Otho  lies  yonder  on  a  rising  knoll ;  it  is  a  rather  heavy, 
unwieldy  thing,  manifestly  set  down  into  this  light 
climate  from  a  Northern  fog ;  no  genuine  Greek  brain 
could  ever  have  conceived  that  edifice.  It  is  the  work  of 
a  German  architect  —  an  honest  work,  one  may  truly  say. 
but  ponderously  prosy.  Then  there  are  palatial 
residences,  built  in  the  latest  French  style,  such  as  are 
going  up  at  this  moment  in  the  new  streets  of  Paris ; 
stucco  and  paint  on  the  outside,  common  brick  on  the  in- 
side ;  trying  their  best  to  look  like  solid  marble  with  a 
sort  of  Parisian  grace,  trying  to  seem  what  they  are 
not  —  a  sham,  an  architectural  lie. 

Do  you  know  where  is  all  this  unhappy  work  in  build- 
ing? Right  in  the  presence  of  the  Parthenon.  Raise  your 
eyes  now  out  of  the  German  fog  and  the  French  glitter ; 
on  yonder  summit  in  the  background  of  your  view  stands 
the  supreme  structure  of  the  world.  It  looks  down  upon 
its  city  with  a  joyous,  tender  glance  — as  a  mother  leans 
over  her  babe  and  smiles.  For  twenty-three  centuries 
the  Parthenon  has  stood  upon  that  height,  raying  its 
beauty  into  the  world  ;  still  it  is  as  happy  as  on  the  day 
it  was  finished.  Robbed  by  barbarians,  battered  by  can- 
non, blown  up  with  gunpowder,  it  is  yet  the  temple  of  the 
Goddess  Pallas  Athena  who  looks  out  between  its  columns 


FROM  ATHENS  TO  PENTELICUS.  17 

with  delighted  pride  and  majesty  upon  her  favorite  land. 
It  is  wonderful  how  such  a  shattered  building  gives  a 
sense  of  harmony  and  perfection.  The  central  columns 
on  both  sides  have  been  blasted  outwards,  yet  the  un- 
matched unity  of  the  building,  even  when  seen  from  the 
sides,  is  preserved  for  the  eye  and  the  feeling.  As  long 
as  a  single  drum  of  a  column  is  preserved,  its  beauty  will 
remain ;  for  the  fragment  bears  the  image  of  the  whole 
work.  The  emotion  which  this  edifice  calls  forth  can  not 
be  told,  for  it  is  an  emotion ;  you  are  caught  up  and 
absorbed,  as  it  were,  into  a  new  sense  of  harmony,  so 
that  if  there  be  any  music  in  you,  it  will  begin  playing. 
You,  life,  the  world  turn  harmonious  in  its  glance; 
strife,  discord,  anxiety  are  banished  in  this  new  attune- 
ment  of  the  soul.  I  should  say,  if  there  ever  was  a  song 
in  stone,  an  architectural  hymn  of  joy  and  hope,  there  it 
is  ;  listen  to  it,  let  us  catch  the  note  and  carry  it  with  us 
through  the  entire  Greek  journey. 

But  those  old  Greeks  were  heathens  —  Pericles,  the 
Statesman  who  caused  the  temple  to  be  built,  and  sup- 
plied the  means ;  Ictinus  the  Architect,  who  can  make  a 
marble  column  dance  with  the  grace  and  gaj'ety  of  a 
Greek  maiden  in  the  chorus  at  a  festival ;  Phidias  the 
Sculptor  who  according  to  the  Greek  epigram,  actually 
went  to  Olympus  and  brought  down  its  deities  and  set 
them  up  in  the  pediment  of  the  temple  —  all  these  men 
were  heathens,  living  in  the  time  of  the  "  false  and  lying 
Gods."  Still  I  confess  I  would  like  to  have  lived  with 
them  for  a  while,  long  enough  at  least  to  have  found  out 
whether  the  utterance  be  true  which  speaks  from  all  their 
works,  that  man  then  was  the  most  harmonious  being  that 
he  has  yet  been  upon  our  planet,  so  far  as  he  has  left  a 
record  of  himself. 

Now  we  must  pass  on,  unwillingly  yet  with  hope,  since 
there  is  an  absolute  certainty,  if  clouds  do  not  thwart, 
that  we  shall  see  the  Parthenon  again  from  new  points  of 
view ;  it  is  the  most  prominent  object  in  Athens,  in  all 
Attica,  visible,  some  say,  at  a  distance  of  forty  miles  in 
clear  weather.  From  every  point  of  the  landscape  the 
look  moves  to  it  as  the  center  of  radiance,  and  it  throws 


18  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

out  its  smiles  in  return,  scattering  them  in  golden  profu- 
sion over  the  plains  down  to  the  seas  and  up  to  the  tops  of 
the  mountains. 

The  eye  drops  into  the  road  away  from  the  Parthenon, 
it  beholds  the  Albanian  peasant  bringing  brushwood  to 
the  city.  He  has  with  him  two  donkeys  and  two  women  ; 
the  bundles  of  twigs  are  strapped  over  the  backs  of  the 
donkeys  in  a  balance  like  a  pair  of  saddle  bags ;  the 
women  stoop  obediently  under  their  burden  of  faggots 
which  is  also  strapped  to  their  shoulders  ;  while  the  lord 
of  creation  walks  alongside,  proudly  erect,  with  majestic 
stride,  but  without  any  burden.  There  is  a  look  of  wild, 
half -civilized  independence  in  his  bearing ;  his  eye  drops 
in  suspicion,  if  you  regard  him  closely.  His  linen  kilt 
and  white  leggins  are  deeply  tinged  with  overmuch  usage  ; 
out  of  a  belted  pouch  lashed  about  his  waist  peer  forth 
the  handle  of  a  long  knife  and  a  horse  pistol.  It  is 
manifest  that  the  women  have  the  worst  of  the  bargain  of 
life  in  the  case  before  us,  their  lot  is  worse  than  that  of 
the  donkeys,  for  these  have  the  advantage  of  not  being 
compelled  to  stoop  in  bearing  their  burdens. 

Look  and  let  them  pass ;  here  comes  another  group, 
men  and  mules  laden  with  green  herbs.  A  mule  brushes 
me  with  its  stores,  when  I  am  greeted  with  a  delightful 
fragrance.  Already  I  had  frequently  experienced  the 
same  pleasurable  sensation  on  my  way  to  and  from 
Hymettus.  Certainly  neither  the  man  nor  the  mule  gave 
forth  that  pleasant  odor ;  it  must  be  the  herb.  What  is 
it,  and  for  what  is  it  used  ?  1  learn  that  it  is  a  plant  of 
no  less  fame  than  the  much-sung  bucolic  thyme  which 
smells  so  sweet  out  of  the  idyls  of  Theocritus.  It  grows 
in  abundance  on  the  spurs  of  Hymettus,  and  is  employed 
in  the  kitchen  to  give  its  aromatic  virtue  to  cooked  meats. 
Such  is  indeed  the  difference  between  then  and  now; 
anciently  thyme  was  taken  by  the  poet  to  sweeten  his 
verses  with  its  delicious  fragrance  ;  now  it  is  used  by  the 
cook  to  flavor  a  beefsteak. 

The  city  has  already  passed  out  of  view,  still  there  is  on 
the  right  hand  the  cheerful  company  of  Hymettus,  famous 
for  its  honey,  home  of  the  Attic  bee.  Again  note  that 


FB  OM  A  THENS  TO  PEN  TELIC  US.  1 9 

undulating  sky-line,  and  imagine  yourself  moving  along  it 
to  the  highest  swell  and  standing  there  in  solitary  Olym- 
pian majesty.  Every  point  has  become  familiar  to  the 
eye,  I  may  say,  friendly.  For  it  is  possible  to  have  a 
deep  and  lasting  friendship  for  the  mountain ;  it  is  not 
fickle,  it  always  gives  you  the  same  joyous  look,  and 
subtle  nod  of  the  head.  It  lies  there  in  the  sun  so  calm, 
so  gracious,  with  such  a  soft  light  sweep  in  its  outline 
that  it  may  truly  lay  claim  to  a  plastic  shape.  A  thin 
haze  casts  over  it  a  slight  veil  of  blue  and  gold,  without 
hiding  in  the  least  its  form,  but  heightening  its  character- 
istic points  by  mild  touches  of  color.  A  few  miles  to  the 
left  lies  its  Attic  companion  Parnes,  snow-clad ;  but  the 
white  garment  disappears  about  half-way  down  the  side 
of  the  mountain ;  you  may  say,  that  the  old  slumberer 
has  put  on  his  robe  of  repose  for  a  good  long  sleep  during 
the  winter  night. 

I  leave  the  road  and  pass  into  the  adjoining  field  in 
search  of  a  ruin;  an  ancient  aqueduct  could  not  have 
been  far  from  here.  Through  the  field  I  go  into  a  vine- 
yard ;  peasants  are'  at  work  trimming  the  vines  for  the 
joyous  nectar  of  the  coming  autumn.  A  group  of  them 
see  me,  and  stop  their  work,  looking  spitefully ;  one  of 
them  yells  at  me,  saying:  "  Get  out  of  here  —  the  road 
was  made  to  walk  in."  The  salutation  I  thought  a  little 
rude,  though  I  felt  myself  to  be  a  trespasser.  I  had 
already  experienced  in  Italy  how  jealous  the  peasants 
were  of  strangers  walking  through  their  vineyards,  espe- 
cially when  the  grapes  were  ripe.  1  shall  not  soon  forget 
the  hearty  good-will  with  which  an  Italian  peasant  an- 
swered me  once  when  I  was  taking  a  tramp  through  the 
country  near  Frascati.  I  asked  him  about  the  way  to  the 
nearest  village,  when  he  said,  pointing  to  a  path  through 
the  grape  vines :  "This  way  is  nearest,  but  don't  take  it, 
for  the  peasants  will  think  you  are  a  grape-thief  and  give 
you  a  bastonata.  Go  round  by  the  public  road,"  and  I 
did  not  hesitate  to  follow  his  advice. 

In  the  present  case,  however,  I  turned  aside  from  my 
course,  and  marched  strait  up  to  the  group,  asking,  per- 
haps a  little  tartly :  ' '  What  are  you  shouting  at  me  in 


20  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

this  way  for?  What  do  you  want?  "  The  peasant  who 
had  called  out,  observing  my  foreign  accent  and  dress,  as 
well  as  my  manner  perhaps,  made  a  lunge,  without  sa3ring 
a  word  in  reply,  toward  an  immense  wooden  canteen,  un- 
corked it  and  held  it  to  my  lips.  It  was  a  peace-offering 
of  remarkable  power,  as  well  as  a  sign  of  hospitable  wel- 
come. My  slightly  ruffled  feelings  calmed  in  a  moment ; 
I  accepted  the  token  with  the  deepest  draughts  of  grati- 
tude. I  admired  that  humble  peasant's  profound  knowl- 
edge of  human  nature. 

After  the  fluid  had  ceased  its  pleasant  gurgle,  and  eter- 
nal friendship  had  been  pledged,  the  peasants  began  to 
quiz  me  about  my  nationality.  Are  you  a  Frenchman  ? 
No.  German?  No.  Englishman?  No,  by  Jove.  Thus 
they  quite  went  through  the  catalogue  of  nations,  I  pro- 
voking them  always  to  guess  again.  But  they  were  un- 
able to  classify  the  dubious  specimen  before  them,  and  at 
last  I  told  them  that  I  was  an  American.  At  this  word 
an  old  man,  with  a  bright  red  fez  slouched  on  his  head, 
and  wearing  a  remarkably  clean  shirt,  who  had  hitherto 
been  silent,  came  forward,  and  shook  me  heartily  by  the 
hand,  saying:  "The  Americans  and  the  Greeks  are 
brothers !  "  I  looked  at  him,  and  was  suspecting  that  this 
sudden  burst  of  fraternal  affection  proceeded  from  the  reci- 
nato;  but  I  answered  him,  affirming  with  warmth  the  same 
sentiment,  for  I  felt  no  less  brotherly  than  he  did,  myself. 

The  old  man  then  recounted  how  shiploads  of  clothing 
and  provisions  came  from  that  distant  America,  as  it  were 
from  another  world,  during  the  dark  hours  of  the  Greek 
Revolution ;  he  stated,  if  I  understood  him  aright,  that  he 
was  then  a  soldier  and  was  saved  from  starvation  by  the 
timely  arrival  of  the  ship ;  he  added  the  fact,  no  doubt 
important  to  him,  that  potatoes  were  then  for  the  first 
time  introduced  into  Greece.  Thus  he  spake,  and  with 
decided  emotion.  What  could  I  do  under  the  circum- 
stances, but  drink  to  the  freedom  and  prosperity  of 
Greece  ?  It  would  have  been  ungrateful  not  to  have  done 
so,  according  to  all  laws  of  good  fellowship  and  patriot- 
ism. Therefore  a  hearty  bumper  to  fair  Hellas  was 
swallowed,  when  he  in  return  drank  a  handsome  toast  to 


FEOM  A  THENS  TO  PEN  TELIC  US.  2 1 

America,  which  of  course  had  to  be  answered.  After  a 
pleasant  interchange  of  good  wishes,  I  prepared  to  start, 
for  that  image  of  Helen  suddenly  flitted  before  me  toward 
Pentelicus,  disappearing  with  a  wave  of  the  hand  into  the 
clouds.  Yet  not  without  a  final  bumper  to  the  company 
did  I  breakaway,  skipping  off  in  happy  mood,  and  taking 
the  friendly  conduct  of  these  simple  countrymen  as  a  good 
omen  of  my  future  journey.  Yes,  I  can  truly  affirm  that 
I  went  in  better  mood  than  I  came. 

I  believe  that  this  affection  for  our  country  among  the 
Greeks  is  genuine.  Every-where  I  received  more  friendly 
attention  when  I  announced  my  native  land.  I  know  that 
M.  About,  with  his  accustomed  satirical  scoff  at  all  things 
Grecian,  would  have  us  believe  that  the  wily  Greek  flat- 
ters all  nationalities  in  the  same  manner,  that  he  is 
thoroughly  insincere  and  mercenary  in  his  friendships. 
I  can  only  say,  such  was  not  my  experience.  But  it  is 
my  emphatic  experience  that  M.  About  in  his  book  on 
Greece  is  more  desirous  of  pointing  his  epigrams  than  of 
telling  the  truth.  I  found  a  very  discriminating  good- 
will for  the  different  European  nations  even  among  Greek 
peasants.  Unquestionably  the  people  have  the  most  af- 
fection for  France,  because  France,  of  all  the  Great 
Powers,  has  shown  for  Greece  the  most  disinterested 
friendship.  Also  the  Greeks  and  the  French  have  not  a 
few  traits  in  common  —  and  those  traits  among  the 
noblest  of  human  nature.  One  may  be  mentioned :  that 
aspiration  after  an  ideal,  above  all  a  political  ideal  which 
shall  bring  unity  to  nations,  and  secure  to  man  freedom 
and  social  happiness. 

On  the  other  hand  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  the 
Greek  has  at  the  present  time  (the  period  of  the  Disraeli 
ministry)  small  affection  for  the  English.  The  reason  is 
manifest:  England's  diplomacy  in  the  East  has  sacrificed 
the  Greek  race  on  the  ground  of  supposed  English  inter- 
ests. Turkey  is  thought  to  be  the  sole  bulwark  against 
Russia,  and  Turkey  must  be  sustained.  So  the  Greek 
lamb  has  been  thrown  to  the  Turkish  jackal.  No  person 
will  blame  the  Greeks  for  their  dislike  of  England ;  no 
caudid  Englishman  will  blame  them. 


22  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

Threading  my  way  through  the  vineyard,  1  came  to  the 
small  village  of  Chalandri.  The  church  is  the  most  impor- 
tant edifice  of  the  village ;  next  to  the  church  is  the  wine- 
shop, which  is  the  only  house  open  to  the  stranger  as  a 
resort  or  resting-place  All  the  dwellings  are  walled  in, 
and  seem  to  be  hermetically  sealed ;  there  is  no  friendly 
opening  of  porches  and  of  doors  toward  the  street,  as  in 
an  American  town.  The  domestic  abode  turns  away  from 
the  outside  world,  which  is  suspected  and  repelled ;  one 
walks  through  the  lonely  streets  enlivened  nowhere  by 
children  at  play  or  by  housewives  sewing  at  the  front 
door;  he  feels  as  if  shunned  and  rejected  by  his  kind, 
condemned  beforehand  by  some  unjust  suspicion.  Orien- 
tal seclusion  of  the  family  is  suggested,  perhaps  too 
readily,  to  the  mind  of  the  traveler. 

The  wineshop  has  the  only  open  door  or  window  in  the 
town  ;  there  I  enter.  It  has  no  floor ;  good  mother  earth 
takes  my  wearied  feet  upon  her  bare  bosom.  There  is  no 
ceiling  overhead  to  hide  the  naked  rafters,  which  give  sup- 
port on  the  outside  to  the  boards  on  which  the  tiles  are  laid. 
The  place  has  rather  a  dark,  cave-like  appearance,  forbid- 
ding, I  should  say,  were  it  not  for  the  huge  hogsheads 
which  are  disposed  in  a  long  row  on  one  side  of  the  room, 
and  which  contain  infinite  joys.  My  hearers  will  prob- 
ably think  that  I  had  learned  enough  for  one  day  about 
the  Greek  wine-god;  but  the  thirst  for  knowledge  of 
Greek  divinity  was  not  yet  stilled.  At  my  call  the  youth 
in  attendance  brought  a  clear  yellow  fluid  with  a  slight 
sparkle,  for  which  he  charged  me  at  the  rate  of  one  cent 
a  glass. 

In  passing,  it  may  be  remarked  that  this  is  a  fixed  price 
for  many  articles  in  Greece — one  cent.  You  pay  for  a  cup 
of  coffee  one  cent ;  I  could  not  judge  of  its  quality,  for  I 
never  drink  coffee ;  you  pay  one  cent  for  a  glass  of  wine, 
often  excellent,  though  it  be  recinato ;  one  cent  for  a  glykis- 
ma  or  sweetmeat,  one  cent  for  a  raki,  one  cent  for  a  mas- 
ticha.  These  last  two  are  distilled  liquors  of  which  the 
traveler  will  frequently  be  called  upon  to  partake,  as  they 
belong  to  good  cheer  and  hospitality.  Of  course  they  are 
like  alcohol  the  world  over  when  taken  to  excess :  soul-cor- 


FROM  ATHENS  TO  PENTELICUS.  23 

rupting,  body-destroying.  Cheap,  antediluvian  prices 
still  prevail  in  the  rural  districts.  I  recollect  that  a  mer- 
chant of  Arachova  sold  me  a  cent's  worth  of  thread,  re- 
quired on  account  of  the  secession  of  sundry  refractory 
buttons ;  the  generous  shop-keeper  threw  into  the  bar- 
gain a  glykisma  or  fine  titbit,  and  when  I  offered  him  an 
additional  cent,  he  claimed  that  his  profits  were  sufficient 
without  it. 

I  must  now  make  you  more  fully  acquainted  with  a 
merry  companion,  who  will  accompany  us  throughout  this 
Greek  tour  and  furnish  us  many  a  happy  moment:  his 
name  is  Recinato.  Everywhere  along  the  road  he  is  to  be 
met  with ;  you  will  find  him  in  the  humblest  hut  of  the 
peasant,  where  he  takes  his  place  at  the  hearth  in  the 
evening  with  the  guests,  lighting  up  the  dark  abode  with 
unaccountable  flashes.  I  confess  that  I  was  at  first 
shocked  by  his  peculiarities,  but  when  I  became  used  to 
them,  I  rather  liked  him  the  better  for  them.  He  is  em- 
phatically Greek,  inspires  the  Greek  mood,  has  within 
him  the  Greek  exhilaration ;  Greek  subtlety  he  possesses 
too,  a  sly  way  of  creeping  upon  you  with  his  flattering 
caresses  ere  you  be  fully  aware  of  his  presence.  Hardly 
is  he  to  be  met  with  outside  of  Greece,  but  here  he  reigns 
without  a  rival  in  his  particular  sphere ;  indeed  Greece 
would  not  be  Greece  without  him.  Strangers  often  com- 
plain of  his  bad  taste;  but  why  dispute  about  tastes? 
Faithful  to  the  last  degree,  in  an  eternal  flow  of  high 
spirits,  always  bubbling  over  with  merriment  —  such  is 
our  jolly  rustic  Greek  companion,  Recinato,  that  is  Resi- 
nate  or  resined  wine,  whom  we  shall  never  fail  to  celebrate 
with  many  feelings  of  gratitude.  Do  not  forget  his 
name  —  he  will,be  often  alluded  to. 

Dropping  now  his  personality,  I  may  state  that  this 
wine  is  prepared  by  adding  a  crude  resinous  substance 
to  the  juice  of  the  grape  at  a  certain  stage  of  fermenta- 
tion. Along  the  road  the  gum  can  be  seen  issuing  from 
the  pine-trees  which  have  been  chipped  for  this  purpose. 
The  taste  of  the  wine  becomes  like  the  taste  of  pitch,  or, 
as  some  say,  of  sealing-wax.  At  the  first  effort  to  drink 
it  nature  revolts,  sometimes  revolutionizes ;  only  after 


2i  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

much  preliminary  training  and  chastising  does  the  rebel- 
lious palate  suffer  the  fluid  to  pass  its  portal.  As  it  was 
my  rule  to  eat  and  drink,  or  learn  to  eat  and  drink  what 
the  people  of  the  countries  I  visited  ate  and  drank,  I 
began  with  recinato  shortly  after  my  arrival  at  Athens. 
In  two  or  three  weeks  I  no  longer  noticed  the  pitchy  taste 
in  the  wine,  except  by  a  special  effort.  Other  kinds  of 
wines  are  obtainable  in  the  city,  but  in  the  country  noth- 
ing but  recinato  is  to  be  found ;  hence  the  necessity  of  a 
previous  training  to  this  drink,  if  one  wishes  to  travel  in 
the  provinces,  for  he  can  not  do  it  on  water.  The  reasons 
given  for  treating  wine  in  this  way  were  two  mainly :  to 
preserve  it  from  spoiling  in  the  hot  climate  of  Greece, 
and  to  make  it  more  healthy.  The  ancients  also  had  this 
method  of  treating  wine,  as  appears  from  Pliny.  Such  is 
our  friend  Recinato,  merrily  hailing  us  at  every  village 
and  sometimes  along  the  road ;  such  too  is  his  abode,  the 
wineshop,  called  in  the  dialect  of  the  people  Magazi  —  the 
most  important  house,  after  the  church,  in  a  Greek 
village. 

This  is  an  Albanian  town,  and  the  youth  at  the  bar  informs 
me  that  here  within  five  miles  of  classic  Athens,  Albanian  is 
the  language  of  the  inhabitants.  But  let  there  be  no  further 
delay ;  rest  and  refreshment  have  attached  fresh  wings  to 
the  body,  the  pedestrian  will  fly  into  the  street,  bound  for 
Pentelicus,  now  rising  up  cloud-wrapped  before  him  — in 
real  clouds,  I  mean,  and  not  in  wine-fumes,  as  you  might 
suppose.  Women  in  their  white  smocks  —  not  a  night 
dress  here  —  dart  shyly  through  the  streets  without  look- 
ing at  him,  or  take  special  pains  to  glance  in  the  opposite 
direction  while  he  is  passing.  Folded  over  their  forehead 
above,  and  over  their  chin  and  mouth  below,  is  a  linen 
covering,  intended  to  hide  the  grateful  portion  of  the  face 
from  the  curious  eye  of  the  male.  The  enlightened 
traveler  will  again  curse  the  custom  as  a  relic  of  Oriental 
seclusion  of  women.  They  are  mostly  stockingless, 
their  bare  feet  are  slipped  into  a  sort  of  loose  sandal ; 
over  the  dress  is  sometimes  worn  a  white  woolen  cloak. 
On  the  whole  they  seem  lightly  clad  for  mid-winter ;  but 
their  white  forms  moving  along  in  the  distance  through 


FEOM  ATHENS   TO  PENTELICUS,  25 

the  clear  mild  air  gives  a  joj^ous  Greek  impression  to  the 
landscape,  as  if  it  were  dotted  with  living  statuary. 

Here  comes  a  maiden,  on  her  shoulder  bearing  water  to 
the  village  from  the  spring  in  a  vessel  like  the  ancient  am- 
phora. She  turns  out  of  the  road,  looks  away  from  me, 
and  adjusts  more  closely  the  wrappage  around  her  chin 
and  forehead  ;  still  I  peer  into  her  face.  Wild  irregular 
features  I  caught  a  glimpse  of,  burnt  to  dark  brown  by 
the  sun  of  the  plain.  It  is  manifest  from  this  and  other 
glimpses  that  Helen  is  not  here  at  Chalandri,  nor  is  she 
to  be  found  among  the  Albanian  race.  These  people, 
usually  considered  of  Slavic  origin,  are  said  to  have  come 
into  Greece  at  various  times  during  the  Middle  Ages,  and 
they  still  preserve  unmixed  their  blood,  their  language, 
their  customs;  and  their  physical  characteristics. 

Thus  one  trudges  forward,  leaving  the  houses  behind, 
and  passing  by  the  spring,  from  which  the  maiden  came 
who  was  carrying  water  to  the  village.  Washers  too  are 
here,  women  with  undraped  limbs,  standing  in  the  cold 
stream  snow-fed  from  the  mountains  ;  there  they  twist  and 
writhe  in  deadly  conflict  with  soiled  garments.  A  mo- 
mentary glance  the  traveler  will  cast  at  them  for  the  sake 
of  the  antique,  and  then  modestly  turn  away.  Something 
else  is  calling  which  must  be  followed ;  a  good  road 
leading  directty  up  to  Pentelicus  will  not  permit  him  to 
stray  from  his  goal. 

Into  this  road  let  us  enter ;  a  brook  with  a  most  pleas- 
ant babble  meets  us,  and  keeps  us  company,  having 
flowed  all  the  way  down  from  Pentelicus  for  this  special 
purpose,  as  we  may  believe,  for  it  never  deviates  a  moment 
from  the  side  of  the  road  where  we  are  walking.  There  is 
a  Greek  mood  in  its  transparent  merry  flow ;  one  feels 
eager  to  trace  it  to  its  very  source  and  there  imbibe  of 
the  happy  waters  to  see  if  he  may  not  be  able  to  catch  the 
secret  of  its  eternal  joys.  Two  peasants  I  come  upon, 
stretched  along  its  bank  asleep  on  the  stones,  without  the 
protection  of  bush  or  passing  cloud  ;  their  mule  is  turned 
loose  in  the  fields.  This  natural  way  of  taking  repose  is 
reposeful  even  to  others  ;  their  sleep  is  as  refreshing  to  the 
beholder  as  to  themselves. 


26  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

Now  I  beg  you,  bring  before  the  mind's  eye  the  pedes- 
trian as  he  not  very  rapidly  winds  up  the  ascending  road  ; 
in  one  hand  he  holds  a  staff,  in  the  other  a  small  bundle 
tied  together  by  a  strap ;  he  steps  lightly  through  the  air, 
though  his  wings  be  but  the  flaps  of  his  mantle  playing  in 
the  stiff  northwest  wind.  Often  he  turns  around  and 
stands,  glancing  at  the  ranges  of  mountains  which  bound 
the  horizon  at  many  different  distances ;  at  last  he  will 
stop  and  sit  on  a  stone,  looking  with  a  long  stare  full  of 
wonder  and  delight  at  the  golden  sport  off  yonder  be- 
tween the  clouds,  the  peaks,  and  the  sunbeams.  Peer 
into  his  face;  whatever  else  you  may  say  about  him, 
good  and  bad,  you  will  say  that  now  he  is  happy.  So  I 
imagine,  every  other  human  being  would  be,  were  he 
alone  and  afoot,  going  up  Pentelicus  this  hour. 

What  a  harmonious  day,  he  is  continually  repeating  to 
himself,  a  truly  musical  day  in  which  all  the  elements  of 
Nature  are  joined  in  sweet  concordant  strains  with  the 
soul !  It  is  a  day  which  the  old  Greek  artist  would  set  to 
music  in  a  poem,  in  a  statue,  in  a  temple.  The  sun  comes 
out  warmly,  but  the  wind  from  the  snows  of  the  northern 
mountains  brings  along  the  spurring  freshness  of  the  sea- 
son and  never  suffers  the  energies  to  droop  from  their  full 
yet  easy  tension.  With  the  rays  cut  off  by  a  passing 
cloud,  Boreas  has  no  modifier  and  may  become  a  little 
rough  —  but  this  discordant  note  lasts  but  a  moment,  and 
then  heightens  by  contrast  the  outpouring  harmony  of  the 
returning  sunbeams.  The  summits  line  after  line  swoon 
away  in  the  distance  into  a  blue  ethereal  dream  ;  far  off 
to  the  left  they  sink  down  into  the  sea  whose  hazy  purple 
can  be  dimly  discerned  holding  in  tender  embrace  its 
azure-girdled  nymphs,  the  islands,  fairest  of  whom,  you 
will  say,  is  Salamis,  with  a  thin  blue  veil  over  her  form 
floating  on  the  waters.  No  thought  of  peril  from  brigands 
introduces  a  jarring  moment  into  the  melodious  hours  — 
but  another  danger  has  arisen  —  worse  than  brigands : 
that  plain,  heavy-shod  pedestrian  is  positively  in  danger 
of  turning  sentimental.  Who  would  have  expected  that 
of  the  hard-headed  son  of  Utility? 

But  let  him  run  his  course,  there  is  no  curbing  him  now 


FROM  ATHENS   TO  PENTE!,1CUS.  27 

upon  this  spot,  since  his  and  our  main  occupation  here  as 
elsewhere  in  Greece  is  to  fill  these  deserted  fields  with  the 
forms  of  the  Past;  for  all  this  nature  through  which  we 
move  is  but  a  frame  holding  an  ancient  picture,  now  quite 
invisible  from  accumulated  dust  and  mould ;  }'et  if  we  rub 
it  with  some  patience,  shining  faces  will  come  to  light,  of 
divine  power  and  beauty.  Yon  white  clouds  still  wrap 
the  top  of  Pentelicus,  who  refuses  to  uncover  and  salute 
the  stranger  approaching ;  but  below  on  the  side  of  the 
mountain  can  be  seen  large  white  spots  which  are  not 
clouds.  They  are  the  old  quarries  of  Pentelic  marble, 
some  of  which  have  again  been  opened  in  recent  times ; 
KingOtho's  palace,  for  instance,  was  built  of  this  marble. 
Thus  the  quarries  lie  there,  glancing  afar  —  the  bright 
eyes  of  the  mountain  you  may  call  them,  through  glisten- 
ing tears  begging  to  be  made  again  into  forms  of  beauty. 
Nay,  the  whole  Pentelic  range  lies  there,  a  thing  of  nature 
waiting  for  a  new  transformation  —  for  a  regeneration  out 
of  nature  into  a  thing  of  spirit,  that  it  may  thus  reach  the 
highest  end  of  its  existence. 

The  wonderful  works  of  Athenian  Art  —  temples,  public 
buildings,  thousands  of  statues  and  monuments  —  found 
their  material  in  this  mountain.  About  the  middle  of  the 
fifth  century  B.  C.  the  activity  here  must  have  been  at 
its  height,  though  it  continued,  doubtless,  for  ages.  At 
that  period  the  Athenians  must  have  been  quarrying  mar- 
ble for  the  Parthenon,  the  erection  of  which  had  been  re- 
solved on.  Along  this  road,  over  these  fields,  what 
a  busy  throng !  The  teamsters  with  their  vehicles  in  a 
line  quite  extending  to  Athens  ;  the  workmen  of  all  kinds, 
the  overseers,  the  architects  with  their  central  figure, 
Ictinus  —  here  /they  all  come  and  go  with  incessant  din, 
sometimes  not  without  conflict,  and  always  with  great 
outpouring  of  Attic  volubility.  Nor  will  the  traveler, 
growing  thirsty  and  hot  with  the  long  and  high-strained 
quest,  forget  the  wineshops,  which  then  marked  every 
turn  of  the  road,  with  merry  publicans  dispensing  the 
joyous  nectar,  without  which,  as  a  very  foundation,  the 
temple  of  Pallas  Athena,  Goddess  of  Wisdom,  could  not 
have  been  built. 


28  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

But  with  the  physical  eye  no  human  being  is  now  visi- 
ble along  the  way ;  no  wagons,  heavy-laden  with  blocks 
of  marble  pass  you ;  all  is  silent,  deserted,  and  the  white 
quarries  are  still  as  the  bones  of  a  graveyard.  You  have 
to  bring  your  people  with  you,  and  all  your  objects  down 
to  the  ox-cart ;  your  winehouse,  too,  has  to  be  supplied 
by  the  imagination.  As  you  go  through  the  fields,  your 
foot  will,  perchance,  stumble  against  a  stone ;  you  will 
pick  it  up  and  nick  the  edge  of  it ;  observe  that  it  is  a  very 
old  remnant  of  a  piece  of  marble,  in  fact,  a  chip  from  a 
block.  So  you  may  put  on  this  spot  a  workshop  of 
Phidias  where  the  material  of  his  statues  was  dressed  in 
the  rough.  As  you  look  sympathetically  at  the  fresh 
break  with  its  crystalline  grain,  it  sparkles  and  smiles 
in  your  eyes,  like  a  broken  Greek  satyr  laughing  in  its 
fragments. 

But,  after  all,  the  most  interesting  figure  which  you  can 
see  flitting  mid  these  solitudes  of  stone  is  that  of  Socra- 
tes, the  Attic  philosopher,  at  the  time  of  the  building  of 
this  temple  not  a  philosopher  but  a  young  sculptor,  hunt- 
ing here  for  good  blocks  of  marble,  out  of  which  to  make 
his  group  of  the  Three  Graces.  Long  afterwards  this 
work  of  his  could  be  seen  in  the  Acropolis ;  of  its  artistic 
merit  nothing  can  now  be  definitely  affirmed.  But  be- 
hold him,  the  mighty,  heaven- compelling  ghost,  for  the 
sake  of  that  which  he  is  to  become !  In  outward  appear- 
ance he  seems  to  pay  little  attention  to  the  Graces ; 
wrapped  in  the  careless  folds  of  his  himation  or  blanket, 
in  low  sandals  or  possibly  bare-footed  the  pug-nosed 
Greek  shufflles  along,  scenting  some  far-off  modern 
world,  yet  quite  unconscious  that  he  is  to  begin  the  revo- 
lution which  will  not  only  break  to  pieces  the  Three 
Graces,  but  hurl  down  all  the  Gods  of  Otympus.  So  in 
the  very  bloom  of  things  is  the  germ  of  their  decay ;  here 
with  Phidias  the  great  revealer  of  the  Gods,  moves  Soc- 
rates having  in  his  head  the  ripening  thought  which  is  to 
destroy  them. 

Thus  the  rock  underfoot  still  glistens  with  graceful 
smiles ;  the  huge  boulder  will  show  its  origin  by  its 
capricious  seams ;  the  bed  of  the  brook  is  marked  in  its 


FROM  ATHENS   TO  PENTELICUS.  29 

• 

zigzag  course  through  the  fields  by  a  line  of  white,  glanc- 
ing pebbles.  Every  stone  speaks,  and  points  up  to 
Pentelicus,  declaring  that  it  is  still  full  of  harmony,  full 
of  Parthenons,  if  the  man  were  only  here  to  make  it  give 
forth  its  treasures.  In  its  night  lies  the  most  beautiful 
of  Goddesses,  the  sleeping  Venus,  she  that  once  was 
awake  in  the  old  Greek  world ;  —  who  will  rouse  her 
again?  In  its  depths  still  sits  Olympian  Jupiter,  the  God 
who  hurled  the  dark  brood  of  Titans  into  gloomy  Tarta- 
rus, but  has  now  in  his  turn  been  imprisoned  by  ancient 
Chaos  in  adamantine  fetters  —  where  is  the  Phidias  to 
release  him  and  bring  him  out  to  sunlight  once  more?  In 
the  olden  time  these  rude  Pentelic  blocks  were  trans- 
ported to  Athens,  where  they  found  breath ;  and  men 
there  were  able  to  make  them  give  forth  the  highest 
utterances.  Of  all  the  great  deeds  of  Athens  one  is  in- 
clined to  set  this  down  as  the  greatest :  that  for  a  time  it 
seemed  to  make  this  whole  Pentelicus,  rough  chaotic 
mountain,  leap  into  temples,  into  the  forms  of  Great  Men, 
Heroes,  and  Gods.  But  the  man  is  certainly  not  here 
now  who  can  do  this  ;  Peutelicus,  though,  is  here,  silent, 
in  expectancy ;  but  it  vails  its  summit  in  a  white  cloud, 
out  of  shame  perhaps,  unwilling  to  look  upon  even  that 
solitary  pedestrian  who  is  now  loitering  up  its  side  not  far 
from  the  cloud-line,  into  which,  you  doubtless  think,  he 
has  already  entered. 

But  he  has  not,  I  affirm ;  he  still  can  see  and  can  be 
seen  distinctly  with  a  good  pair  of  eyes,  though  it  may 
now  be  necessary  to  strain  them  just  a  little  for  a  moment 
to  meet  an  unaccustomed  demand  upon  them.  Look  up- 
ward, then,  once  more  to  those  quarries ;  the  earth  is 
slightly  moving  and  has  laid  bare  its  white  Pentelic  bosom. 
They  rise  —  innumerable  sculptured  forms  —  they  spring 
out  of  the  sides  of  the  mountain  and  hurry  past  towards 
the  city.  One  by  one,  in  silent  glimmering  procession 
down  the  slope  they  move,  or  at  times  by  groups  they 
march ;  each  is  wearing  some  mighty  thought  in  his  shape, 
or  is  filled  with  some  mighty  deed.  One  would  like  to 
question  them  as  they  sweep  by  in  Olympian  majesty,  in 
Bacchantic  joy,  in  Niobean  sorrow ;  but  thousands  on 


30  ,  A    WALK  /#  HELLAS. 

• 

thousands  they  hasten,  bent  on  their  weighty  errand. 
The  plain  below  is  now  full  of  their  white  shapes,  they 
line  the  hills,  they  reach  to  the  shores  of  the  sea;  still  they 
are  moving  forth  from  rocky  beds  of  Pentelicus. 

But  listen!  What  sound  is  that?  It  echoes  through 
the  little  vale,  it  creeps  down  the  slant  of  the  mountain, 
and  spreads  far  and  faintly  over  the  plain.  But  with 
its  vibrations  that  whole  army  of  bright  plastic  shapes 
is  swept  away,  and  disappears  into  thin  air,  like  a  vast 
throng  of  sheeted  ghosts.  Only  the  empty  slopes  and  the 
naked  fields  can  now  be  seen,  —  but  the  sound  contin- 
ues. There !  it  smites  the  sides  of  Pentelicus  again 
rudely,  as  if  to  drive  off  the  demonic  powers:  what  is 
it?  It  is  the  bell  of  the  Monastery  of  Penteli;  before 
the  edifice  we  are  now  standing,  on  firm  ground,  it  may 
be  hoped.  But  with  the  stroke  of  that  bell  we  drop 
through  2000  years  into  a  new  world ;  the  beautiful 
Greek  life,  smitten  by  the  keen  sound,  vanishes  into  a 
dream ;  instead  of  the  white  folds  of  some  sweet  nymph 
sporting  over  the  summits  or  wading  in  the  brook,  yon- 
der in  the  landscape  moves  a  dark  shape  —  it  is  a  Greek 
monk,  with  melancholy  stole  swashing  about  his  legs  as  he 
hurries  to  his  prayers.  It  is  indeed  a  new  world,  and  we 
have  to  confess  to  the  truth  of  that  later  medieval  le- 
gend which  affirmed  that  the  ringing  of  the  bell  of  church 
or  cloister  had  the  power  of  putting  to  flight  the  old 
Gods.  But  we  belong  to  our  own  time,  let  us  enter  the 
Monastery. 


//.     FROM  PENTELICUS  TO  PARNES. 

The  Monastery  of  Penteli  is  situated  in  a  beautiful  dell 
surrounded  on  all  sides  by  mountains,  with  the  exception 
of  the  narrow  pass  which  leads  us  into  the  sacred  inclos- 
ure.  Streams  of  clear  water  play  through  the  grounds, 
and  are  conducted  in  artificial  channels  mid  a  grove  of 
fine  plane-trees ;  then  they  gnther  into  a  single  current 
and  dash  off  into  the  vail  y  below,  through  the  passage 


FROM  PENTELICUS   TO  PAENES.  31 

up  which  we  have  just  come,  turning  in  their  course  the 
wheel  of  an  old  mill.  The  entire  locality  bears  the  im- 
press of  some  large  fountain  head  which  lies  in  the 
spacious  bosom  of  the  mountains,  whence  it  sends  its 
benignant  streams  and  overflows  the  thirsty  plains.  Na- 
ture in  her  very  conformation  suggests  here  the  inward 
gathering,  the  contemplation  of  the  soul,  and  also  its  out- 
pouring of  charity  and  blessing  upon  the  world. 

The  building  which  incloses  the  court  looks  neat  and 
unpretentious ;  but  the  first  and  most  satisfying  impres- 
sion is  the  perfect  repose  of  the  spot.  It  is  a  quiet  green 
cradle  of  Tranquillity  set  down  between  these  rugged 
summits  which  overlook  it  not  without  a  touch  of  rude 
tenderness.  The  rills,  the  trees,  the  verdure  are  always 
refreshing  to  the  human  eye,  but  here  they  seem  to  have  a 
new  virtue  as  being  an  offset  to  the  wild  towering  rocks. 
The  hospitality  of  the  Monastery  is  offered  to  the  stranger ; 
something  to  eat  and  a  place  of  rest  for  the  night  are  now 
at  his  disposal ;  they  will  be  accepted  if  Pentelicus  will 
but  clear  up  his  cloudy  brow. 

No  monks  are  to  be  seen  just  HOW  ;  they  are  at  prayer 
in  their  cells,  and  all  around  the  building  as  one  makes 
the  circuit  of  it,  can  be  heard  the  low  mumble  of  reading 
and  of  devotion.  They  are  indeed  at  work,  at  their  work 
in  this  world.  Now,  of  all  questions  which  arise  in  the 
mind  surveying  the  scene,  this  question  is  uppermost: 
What  means  this  Monastery  here  amid  these  hills  ?  Fifteen 
men,  as  I  learn  on  inquiry,  dwell  in  it,  of  able  body  and 
sound  mind,  separated  from  all  society  and  domestic  life, 
divorced  from  the  institutions  of  the  world  —  what  busi- 
ness has  such  a  thing  to  be?  Here  they  remain,  passing 
their  lives  in  this  secluded  nook,  manifestly  doing  two 
works  with  great  assiduity :  whitewashing  their  house,  and 
praying.  Praying  for  what?  For  dear  life,  at  least,  if  one 
may  judge  by  that  confused  multitude  of  low  voices 
which  now  float  on  the  air  up  toward  the  summits. 

They  have  made  this  little  vale  a  delightful  spot,  a 
beautiful  thing  amid  ruggedness,  and  the  eye  rests  upon  it 
with  joy  ;  so  much  is  a  manifest  gain.  Also  they  give  to 
the  weary  traveler  and  to  the  poor  beggar  hospitable 


32  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

shelter  and  food  ;  —  but  is  this  all  ?  This  could  be  done 
without  prayer,  or  at  least  without  such  an  organized 
quantity  of  it  —  and  without  such  a  life.  A  little  city 
they  have  built  with  its  walls  and  cells  for  houses ;  a  little 
world,  indeed  a  spiritual  world  they  have  here  all  to  them- 
selves. Why,  one  asks  again,  has  this  thing  appeared  in 
the  course  of  time,  and  why  does  it  remain  with  us  still? 
Having  such  a  problem  in  his  soul,  the  reflective  traveler 
turns  away,  and  begins  to  climb  the  mountain  slowly ; 
then  he  will  stop  and  look  around  at  the  old  structure 
again,  calmly  nestled  there  in  the  dell  mid  the  plane- 
trees.  For  what  purpose,  then,  is  it  here? 

This  problem  rays  out  in  all  directions,  and  embraces 
many  other  problems.  Here  is  Pentelicus,  there  is 
Athens ;  now  this  Monastery,  rude,  helpless,  barbarous 
edifice,  though  it  be  tidy  enough  — has  it  any  thing  to  do 
with  yonder  Parthenon  which  one  can  see  in  full  distinct- 
ness from  this  slant,  resting  upon  its  sunny  elevation  in 
happy  repose  and  perfection  ?  Yes,  there  is  a  connection, 
indeed  the  one  is  a  descendant  of  the  other,  remote,  de- 
generate, but  still  a  descendant.  This  is  the  question  then  : 
to  derive  the  Monastery  from  the  Parthenon,  by  an  inner 
spiritual  genealogy,  which  is  written  down  in  Architecture 
as  in  any  book.  Not  merely  the  structures  are  to  be  traced, 
one  from  the  other,  —  they  are  only  the  outermost  shell,  — 
but  the  spirit  which  resides  in  them,  which  built  them, 
and  which  vivifies  them  still.  Both  have  been  erected  for 
the  dwelling-place  of  divinity;  both  therefore  express 
what  is  strongest  and  deepest  in  man ;  both  give  some  ut- 
terance to  the  spiritual  principle  which  animated  their 
builders. 

It  is  on  the  ideal  side  that  we  must  connect  the  modern 
Greek  world  with  the  ancient.  There  is  still  here  an  ideal 
realm  of  striving,  of  hope  and  faith.  But  the  modern 
Greek,  smitten  with  the  curse  of  Turkish  supremacy, 
perhaps  above  all  other  Christian  peoples,  has  flung  the 
real  side  of  life  to  the  winds.  Earth,  man,  comfort,  even 
cleanliness,  he  too  often  casts  away  as  unnecessary  ex- 
ternals belonging  to  this  world.  Atitliropos  einai  skolex  — 
man  is  a  worm  —  continually  repeated  my  sometime 


FROM  PENTELICUS   TO  PARNES.  33 

humble  becimaker,  pious  Spiridkm.  How  different  the 
old  Greek !  Instead  of  man  being  a  worm,  for  him  the 
Divine  entered  the  human  body,  trained  it  to  supreme 
perfection  by  all  sorts  of  exercise,  and  made  it  beautiful. 
With  him  divinity  came  down  to  earth,  entered  even  this 
Pentelic  marble,  and  molded  it  into  forms  that  revealed 
the  Highest.  Thus  there  was  the  happy  union,  the  com- 
plete equipoise  between  the  Real  and  the  Ideal,  such  as 
has  been  seen  the  one  time  upon  our  Earth.  All  became 
harmonious,  beautiful ;  herein  ancient  Greece  educates 
the  human  race  to-day. 

But  short  was  the  festive  May-day  of  that  old  world ; 
Time  soon  split  the  happy  unity  into  a  warring  dualism. 
The  Ideal  overbalanced  the  Real  and  cast  it  out ;  flesh 
became  sin,  the  Earth  became  the  abode  of  the  Devil, 
Parthenon  fell  into  ruins,  and  there  arose  the  Monastery. 
And  what  is  still  the  doctrine  of  the  Monastery?  Man 
has  his  home  not  on  Earth  but  in  Heaven ;  the  Ideal  be- 
longs not  here,  but  beyond  ;  what,  therefore,  is  the  use  of 
a  comfortable,  not  to  speak  of  a  beautiful  house,  when  we 
have  to  move  out  of  it  so  soon,  and  pass  into  an  infinitely 
better  one?  The  Monastery  represents  this  indifference 
to  the  sensuous  appearance  in  which  Art  reveals  itself ; 
the  world  is  not  indwelt  of  the  divine,  but  of  the  diabolic. 

Also  we  have  prayer  here,  incessant  prayer  —  which  is 
the  soul's  aspiration  and  indeed  momentary  elevation  into 
that  realm  beyond.  To  this  solitary  spot  human  beings 
have  retired  where  they  live  wholly  for  their  Ideal,  live  in 
a  prayer,  sometimes  in  an  ecstasy  which  almost  raises  the 
body  into  the  heavenly  Beyond.  Thus  the  break  between 
the  Real  and  the  Ideal  is  pushed  to  its  extreme  conse- 
quences, and  is,  still  further  manifested  in  the  fact,  that 
the  most  aspiring  and  often  the  most  noble  natures  flee 
from  the  world  and  deliver  it  over  to  Satan,  who  in  such 
case  is  quick  to  take  possession.  That  ancient  Greek  in- 
stinct which  sought  to  form  both  the  State  and  the  Indi- 
vidual, nay  the  whole  Universe,  into  an  harmonious  work 
of  Art,  is  now  lost  in  the  devilish  reality. 

Everywhere  in  Greece  these  monasteries  are  to  be 
found ;  every  district  of  any  extent  has  one  of  them. 


34  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

They  doubtless  answer  a  need  of  the  human  heart,  also  a 
need  of  the  community.  The  Ideal  must  have  some  place 
of  protection,  some  refuge  when  it  is  driven  out  of  society 
and  institutions  by  Turkish  oppression  or  other  untoward 
visitation,  else  man  himself  would  relapse  into  savageiy. 
It  is  a  very  important  matter,  this  preserving  the  Ideal  to 
a  nation.  As  long  as  even  a  corrupt  and  subjugated 
people  retain  it,  there  is  in  them  the  seed  of  regeneration. 
Many  and  curious  are  the  ways  in  which  it  seeks  to  pre- 
serve itself.  Often  it  flees  to  literature,  to  poetry,  to 
romance,  to  the  construction  of  imaginary  common- 
wealths in  which  it  sits  upon  its  own  throne,,. and  reigns 
triumphant,  far "  away  from  the  miserable  reality  around 
it.  Often,  too,  it  goes  to  the  cloister  and  there  prays. 
In  this  way,  every  large  community  has,  we  may  justly 
affirm,  its  idealists  locked  up  and  thus  preserved  —  for 
they  are  the  seed  of  the  good  time  coining,  and  an 
example  of  renunciation  for  the  sake  of  the  Be}Tond.  In 
turbulent  periods  as  in  the  Middle  Ages,  the  monastery 
is  the  calm  green  island  amid  the  tossing  and  tenebrous 
ocean,  where  upon  a  firm  foundation  a  light-house  may 
be  built ;  but  in  halc}ron  days  it  too  often  attracts  the 
idler,  who,  sure  of  his  dinner,  gazes  slothfully  into 
vacuity.  Modern  society  also  drives  some  lofty  spirits  to 
monasticism,  but  its  general  tendency  is  to  call  them  back 
into  life  where  they  are  sorely  needed. 

One  is  at  first  surprised  to  learn  that  there  were  far 
more  monasteries  in  Greece  under  Turkish  rule  than  at 
present,  and  that  they  were  then  more  encouraged.  Yet 
the  second  thought  will  show  us  that  this  is  simply  the 
fruit  of  tjTanny.  In  such  a  wretched  reality  as  the 
Turkish,  men  were  doubtless  very  eager  to  quit  the 
world ;  the  better  the  men,  the  more  ready  to  preserve 
their  Ideal  in  the  only  way  possible.  Institutions  were 
the  instrument  of  oppression  ;  who  would  not  seek  to  get 
away  from  them  and  pass  life  in  the  shady  retreat  of  a 
cloister  ?  Likewise  it  was  to  the  interest  of  the  Turkish 
oppressor  to  furnish  some  outlet  for  the  more  aspiring  as 
well  as  some  shelter  for  the  more  timorous  of  their  enslaved 
subjects.  So  mouasticism  has  flourished  in  the  Greek 


FROM  PENTELICUS    TO  PARNES.  35 

provinces  of  Turkey,  it  culminates  in  Mount  Athos  or 
Holy  Mountain  in  Macedonia,  where  the  monks  burrow 
all  over  a  range  of  mountains,  like  a  vast  colony  of  prairie 
dogs.  To  such  a  state  has  the  Greek  Ideal  come !  Not 
a  woman  is  allowed  to  set  foot  upon  that  Holy  Mountain  ; 
Helen  herself,  instead  of  causing  a  Trojan  war  for  her 
restoration  would  now  be  banished  from  the  ideal  realm, 
were  she  to  appear  there,  in  all  her  antique  beauty. 

Therefore  we  must  turn  aside  from  Penteli,  with  no  ill 
feelings  for  it,  yet  with  the  fervent  hope  that  the  state  of 
society  which  rendered  monasticism  a  necessity  and  a 
blessing  will  rapidly  pass  away.  Come  out,  ye  mountain 
hermits,  and  again,  as  of  old,  be  conciliated  with  the 
Real ;  put  a  little  of  your  idealism  into  the  world  —  into 
society,  into  politics,  into  dress,  and  above  all  into  Art, 
and  build  us,  if  you  can,  another  Parthenon,  hew  us  out 
another  Jupiter  Olympius.  Here  at  your  very  sill  lies 
Peutelicus,  praying,  if  I  mistake  not  the  voice,  to  be  made 
into  things  of  beauty  once  more ;  long  enough  has  the 
old  mountain  sighed  with  the  imprisoned  forms  of  Gods 
shut  up  in  its  chaotic  dungeons.  Set  them  loose,  and  be 
reconciled  with  us,  the  outsiders — give  to  us,  wallowing 
in  Satanic  mire,  a  breath  of  your  hope  and  ideal  striving, 
not  for  Heaven's  sake,  but  for  Earth's  sake. 

From  the  spur  of  the  hill  where  I  am  standing,  I  can 
see  another  house,  of  imposing  magnitude  for  this  region, 
but  at  the  present  time  deserted  and  falling  to  ruin.  It 
is  situated  on  a  beautiful  spot  overlooking  the  plain  be- 
low, which  extends  across  to  Mount  Parnes  and  is  dotted 
with  frequent  villages.  Above  the  door  can  still  be  read 
the  name  Plaisance.  I  asked  a  peasant  about  it,  he  said 
simply  that  it  was  the  palace  of  the  Duchess.  She,  though 
long  since  deceased,  yet  haunts,  it  is  said,  the  spot  where 
she  once  dwelt  and  worshiped  in  her  peculiar  way.  Com- 
bining what  I  have  seen  in  a  book  with  the  legends  re- 
specting her,  I  am  able  to  give  you  the  following  account. 

The  Duchess  of  Plaisance  seems  to  have  been  one  of 
those  strong  female  characters  for  which  European  Society 
has  hitherto  not  found  any  outlet  in  a  rational  vocation. 
One  frequently  finds  them  stranded  in  the  oddest  places 


36  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

and  in  the  most  outlandish  ways.  This  woman  was  the 
daughter  of  a  minister  of  Napoleon,  was  married  early  and 
unhappily,  was  divorced,  when  she  set  out  on  her  wander- 
ings. After  many  an  adventure  and  fierce  tempest,  she 
came  to  Athens  to  spend  her  remaining  days.  She 
possessed  a  large  income  which  enabled  her  to  indulge  in 
colossal  caprices  ;  these  chiefly  took  a  turn  for  building ; 
one  of  them  was  the  edifice  before  us.  Here  she  lived 
with  five  or  six  huge  dogs,  the  favorite  one  of  which,  rumor 
says,  was  sometimes  invited  to  table  with  her  guests. 

But  the  most  remarkable  fact  in  the  career  of  this  re- 
markable woman  was  the  religion  which  she  was  going  to 
found.  Seeing  that  all  the  great  systems  of  belief  were 
old  and  somewhat  effete,  she  resolved  to  confer  upon  the 
world  the  blessing  of  a  new  one.  Exactly  what  its  tenets 
were  has  never  been  known,  and  they  were  perhaps 
but  dimly  conceived  by  herself.  But  some  of  its  more 
definite  doctrines  turned  on  the  institution  of  marriage, 
as  was  natural  to  a  faith  founded  by  a  woman ;  though 
unable  to  manage  her  own  marital  matters,  she  could  tell 
all  about  it  to  others,  even  settle  it  by  religious  precept. 
A  great  altar  she  constructed,  or  was  going  to  construct, 
somewhere  on  Pentelicus,  from  which  she  was  to  consult 
Deity  and  receive  responses.  The  altar  may  be  a 
myth,  but  here  before  our  eyes  is  the  house  with  her  name 
upon  it,  built  right  at  the  mouth  of  the  defile  which  leads 
up  to  the  monastery.  It  is  Justin  the  spot  to  catch  every 
monk  and  ecclesiastic  who  might  enter  this  passage,  seek- 
ing the  way  to  the  religious  retreat.  I  imagine  that  the 
old  spider  put  her  web  at  this  place  in  order  to  net  the 
,  whole  church,  or  the  younger  monastic  portion  thereof,  as 
they  passed  by  toward  an  ascetic  life.  A  strong  character 
she  was  at  any  rate,  strong  enough  to  have  her  own 
God. 

Such  are  the  three  houses  with  their  associations  which 
Pentelicus  has,  somehow  or  other,  woven  into  our  narra- 
tive :  the  Parthenon,  the  Monastery,  and  the  Belvidere  of 
the  Duchess  —  the  ancipnt,  the  medieval  and  the  modern ; 
each  of  them  is  characteristic  of  its  inmates,  each  desig- 
nates epochs  and  religions. 


FEOM  PENTELIGUS-  TO  PARNES  37 

I  turned  around  and  again  looked  up  toward  the  summit 
of  the  mountain  ;  it  still  has  that  close-wrapped  turban  on 
its  head.  All  day  have  I  watched  the  bank  of  clouds, 
resting  there  defiantly  on  the  top  and  sides  ;  it  is  thick, 
growing  thicker ;  its  boundary  now  is  so  definite,  that  it 
seems  to  be  a  part  of  the  mountain  —  a  white  marble 
precipice  rising  aloft  to  the  heavens.  On  the  other  side 
lies  Marathon,  which  one  will  be  eager  to  get  a  glimpse 
of,  though  it  be  only  in  the  dim  distance.  On  that  spot 
our  Western  world  opened ;  the  sight  of  it,  along  with 
what  it  signifies,  must  still  possess  some  great  virtue,  one 
may  well  imagine.  But  I  may  never  be  able  to  reach 
there  on  account  of  the  brigands ;  so  a  view  of  it  must  be 
sought,  even  under  difficulties. 

I  go  up  jnto  those  new  mountains  —  those  foggy  crags, 
piled  on  Pentelicus  reaching  to  the  skies  ;  the  almost  solid 
boundaiy  I  pass,  and  enter  the  lofty  realm  of  cloudland. 
Nothing  can  be  seen,  every  outline  is  lost,  I  lose  myself. 
But,  as  you  may  know,  I  have  been  lost  before  in  the 
clouds ;  also  I  have  been  often  supposed  to  be  lost  by  the 
people  below,  who  were  unable  to  see  me,  while  I  was 
really  enjoying  the  clearest  of  sunlight  which  lay  tran- 
quilly over  the  summits.  In  the  present  case,  however, 
as  in  all  similar  cases  of  fog,  the  way  out  is  not  difficult, 
one  has  only  to  follow  straight  down  the  slope  of  the 
mountain,  when  he  will  come  into  clear  day  on  the  low 
plains.  Not  as  fair  nor  as  far-reaching  is  this  light  as 
that  above  ;  but  on  foggy  da}rs  what  else  can  one  do? 

Accordingly  I  came  down,  and  crossed  again  into  sun- 
shine. Scarce  had  I  passed  the  cloud-wall,  when  I  heard 
not  far  from  me  a  cracking  of  bushes  followed  by  the 
bark  of  dogs.  Very  soon  a  man  with  a  gun  came  to  view 
creeping  through  the  brushwood  ;  his  outward  appearance 
was  chiefly  made  up  of  a  wild  unshaven  face,  shaggy  ca^ 
pote,  and  dirty  fustanella.  What  did  I  think  of  at  that 
moment?  Brigands,  you  will  easily  guess.  He  had  a 
flintlock  and  two  large  dogs,  I  had  no  weapon.  There 
was  no  use  of  trying  to  avoid  him,  so  without  hesitation  I 
advanced  straight  towards  him  ;  to  my  surprise  he  did  not 
raise  his  gun.  His  dogs  fiercely  rushed  at  me,  but  he 


38  A    WALK  IJV  HELLAS. 

even  went  so  far  as  to  pick  up  a  stone  and  drive  them  off. 
Leaning  on  bis  old  flintlock  he  calmly  awaited  my  ap- 
proach, and  then  at  a  distance  of  about  live  paces  saluted 
me  in  the  most  friendly  manner.  I  returned  the  salute, 
and  asked  him  quickly  where  was  the  road  to  Kephissia. 
He  pointed  it  out  to  me,  nay,  he  went  a  mile  out  of  his 
way  to  put  me  into  the  best  path.  In  the  meantime  j  we 
chatted,  asked  and  answered  the  questions  which  were 
natural  under  the  circumstances,  and  soon  were  on  terms 
of  intimate  friendship. 

Of  course  the  man  might  have  robbed  or  murdered  me 
with  impunity,  had  he  been  so  disposed.  Yet  he  showed 
only  kindness,  only  the  most  generous  endeavor  to  be- 
friend me.  At  separation  he  warmly  shook  my  hand 
with  the  best  wishes,  and  raised  to  my  lips  his  flagon  of 
recinato.  My  thought  of  the  man  was  then  changed  ; 
I  believed  that  under  his  shaggy  capote  made  of  coarse 
goatshair,  there  beat  not  only  an  honest  but  a  warm 
heart.  He  was  a  shepherd,  he  told  me,  and  his  flock  was 
feeding  at  that  time  on  the  other  side  of  the  mountain. 
It  is  true  that  he  slept  out  of  doors  the  whole  year 
round,  that  like  these  shepherds  generally  he  could  not 
live  in  a  house  without  getting  sick ;  it  is  also  true  that 
he  ought  to  have  put  that  fustanella  of  his  to  soak  in  a 
brook  some  weeks,  if  not  months  ago ;  —  still  he  was  a 
man,  a  true  man,  not  a  brigand,  not  even  a  rude  boor. 
This  incident  was  an  important  turning-point  in  my 
journey  ;  with  it  much  of  my  anxiety  passed  away  ;  and  I 
could  not  help  laughing  a  little  to  myself  at  a  certain  per- 
son, who,  I  am  sure,  if  he  had  seen  this  shepherd  half  a 
mile  distant  up  the  mountain  among  the  brush,  would 
have  run  off  to  Athens  and  said  that  he  had  seen  a  brig- 
and out  on  Pentelicus.  In  some  such  way  that  scare 
has  been  kept  up. 

So,  in  musing  mood,  accompanied  by  the  declining  sun, 
I  walk  over  the  fields  to  the  road  and  soon  enter  the  vil- 
lage of  Kephissia.  It  was  famous  in  antiquity  for  its 
pleasant  rills  and  agreeable  air,  and  it  is  still  a  great  re- 
sort during  the  summer ;  the  diplomatic  body  generally 
adjourn  hither  from  the  intolerable  heat  of  Athens.  It  is 


FROM  PENTELICUS   TO  PARNES.  39 

dusk,  I  pass  through  the  main  street,  which  always  leads 
to  that  shining  beacon  of  the  Greek  village,  the  wineshop. 
The  hunger  and  thirst  of  the  weary  traveler  can  here  be 
stilled.  This  was  my  first  Greek  lunch  in  the  country,  so 
it  may  be  of  interest  to  tell  you  what  it  was  composed  of. 
Recinato,  of  the  best  quality  and  in  the  greatest  abun- 
dance at  the  smallest  prices  ;  dark  bread,  coarse,  of  un- 
bolted flour,  but  well-baked  and  good ;  such  were  the  two 
staples,  bread  and  wine.  For  something  by  way  of  lux- 
ury I  called  for  goat's  cheese.  This  cheese  is  brought  in 
little  granulous  balls  which  easily  crumble  and  then  it 
looks  like  our  dry  hand-cheese.  It  is  made  by  the  shep- 
herds on  the  mountains  in  a  not  very  tidy  way  ;  one  in- 
gredient is  often  found  scattered  through  it,  the  reason 
for  which  I  never  learned  —  namely,  the  goat's  hairs.  I 
always  picked  them  out  of  mine,  thinking  that  they  had 
no  business  there,  but  it  must  be  confessed  that  they  are 
pretty  generally  included  in  this  cheese  and  seem  to  share 
iii  the  very  idea  of  it. 

Butter,  in  the  occidental  sense  of  the  word,  is  not  to  be 
found  in  Greece ;  yet  I  am  always  afraid  that  you  will 
think  of  the  pun,  and  will  try  to  confute  me  by  pointing 
triumphantly  to  oleomargarine.  But  this  last  article  I  do 
not  think  has  yet  come  into  Greece,  even  though  it  may 
sometimes  have  come  out  of  it.  Butter-eating  Thracians 
certain  barbarians  were  anciently  called  with  contempt, 
in  contrast  to  the  oil-consuming  Greeks,  civilized  men. 
To  be  sure  there  are  a  few  cows  here  ;  Boeotia  and  Euboea 
have  fine  cattle.  But  the  small  picking  from  the  mount- 
ains will  not  produce  butter ;  only  goats  and  sheep  yield 
milk  from  such  slender  nourishment.  For  sheep  are 
mi  iked  in  Greece,  and  their  milk  is  made  into  various 
products  of  the  dairy.  Nothing  will  better  illustrate  the 
extreme  economy  of  this  country  than  the  fact  that  sheep 
are  milked.  The  American  farmer  has  never  heard  of 
such  a  thing,  and  sheep's  cheese  and  butter,  brought  into 
an  American  market  might  possibly  be  sold  as  rare  curi- 
osities. 

There  is  quite  a  detachment  of  soldiers  stationed  in  the 
town,  for  the  purpose  of  guarding  the  road  to  Marathon, 


40  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

lest  timid  excursionists  get  a  fright.  As  it  is  a  holiday, 
the  most  of  the  soldiers  are  gathered  into  the  wineshop, 
and  are  quite  merry.  They  are  singing  Romaic  songs 
with  that  jolly  whine  peculiar  to  Greek  music.  All  the 
talk  is  albout  the  treaty  of  Berlin,  the  new  boundary  of 
Greece,  the  prospect  of  war  with  the  Ottoman.  The 
keeper  of  the  wineshop  is  flourishing  a  huge  knife,  show- 
ing the  manner  in  which  he  is  going  to  sever  the  Turkish 
head  from  the  Turkish  body,  should  he  only  get  a  chance. 
Patriotic  exhilaration  does  indeed  prevail,  but  there  is  no 
drunkenness,  according  to  the  American  conception  of 
the  word  and  the  deed.  The  Greek  certainly  deserves 
his  reputation  of  being  the  most  temperate  of  men ;  for 
he  is  not  intemperate  even  in  his  temperance. 

A  soldier  observing  me  sits  down  on  the  bench  at  my 
side  and  talks  with  me  ;  he  speaks  Italian  well,  and,  as  it 
seems,  to  me,  likes  to  show  off  his  beautiful  acquirement 
to  his  astonished  comrades.  He  is  a  good  patriot,  not  a 
grumbler ;  he  is  willingly  serving  out  the  time  of  his  con- 
scription, though  with  privation  and  pecuniary  loss  as  he 
affirms,  and  as  one  may  well  believe.  But  his  dear  Hellas 
can  have  his  time  and  his  life,  if  necessary ;  he  is  full  of 
her  glories,  though  he  deeply  laments  her  weakness  and 
her  small  territory.  Still  he  thinks  that  she  has  performed 
wonders  of  progress  during  the  short  period  of  her  inde- 
pendence, and  he  believes  that  she  is  destined  to  be  the 
bearer  of  light  and  liberty  to  the  East.  She  is  to  rule  the 
Orient  once  more,  her  goal  is  Constantinople. 

Thus  thinks  the  common  soldier,  representing,  in  my 
opinion,  the  average  intelligence  and  character  of  the 
Greek.  For  in  his  character  there  is  still  a  high  aspira- 
tion, an  ideal  striving  after  improvement,  although  the 
reality  may  be  discouraging.  I  hail  him  as  a  comrade, 
and  tell  him  that  I  too  was  a  soldier  and  give  him  a  short 
bit  out  of  my  campaigning.  He  ends  by  inviting  me  to 
bunk  with  him  that  night  in  his  quarters  —  an  invitation 
which  I  gladly  accept.  I  wanted  to  see  how  the  Greek 
soldier  fared ;  I  felt  perfectly  able  to  endure  whatever 
quarters  he  had  to  bestows  even  to  sleeping  on  the  feath- 
ery side  of  a  board,  though  I  confess  that  I  have 


FROM  PENTELICUS   TO  PARNES.  41 

been  a  little  enervated  in  recent  years  by  the  luxury  of 
a  bed. 

The  bugle  blew,  my  soldier  had  to  go  to  roll-call ;  lie 
said  he  would  return  in  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes,  and 
conduct  me  to  my  place  of  repose  for  the  night.  But  he 
did  not  come  back  so  soon  ;  I  was  sleepy  and  tired,  and 
could  not  wait ;  accordingly  I  went  off  to  a  large  hotel 
whk-h  has  been  built  here  for  the  purpose  of  accommodat- 
ing the  high  guests  of  the  summer ;  but  at  the  present 
season  it  has  only  an  excursionist  now  and  then  from  the 
city.  I  need  not  say  any  thing  about  this  hotel  except  that 
when  you  enter  it,  you  step  out  of  Greece  into  Western 
Europe.  You  will  get  there  a  fair  bed  and  a  fair  meal  in 
quite  the  same  fashion  as  in  other  parts  of  the  world.  It 
is  arranged  on  the  principle  of  causing  the  traveler  to  live 
quite  in  the  same  manner  that  he  lives  at  home  ;  so  that  in 
this  way  he  may  travel  over  the  whole  world  without  ex- 
periencing any  thing  of  it,  substantially  without  going  out 
of  his  own  house.  My  regret  is  that  I  did  not  get  to  bunk 
with  that  soldier,  and  to  take  a  little  glance  at  the  inside 
of  things  in  his  quarters,  all  of  which  would  help  to  fill 
up  the  picture  of  Greek  life.  In  return  for  which  I  can 
now  only  tell  you  that  I  obtained  a  bed  and  a  beefsteak  — 
both  of  them  doubtless  old  acquaintances  of  yours  that 
need  not  be  further  described. 

But  as  soon  as'  I  was  comfortably  seated  in  my  chair 
before  the  fire,  who,  do  you  think,  came  in  from  a  belated 
journey?  None  other  than  my  friend  Achille,  the  gay 
Frenchman,  a  native  of  Paris,  with  whom  I  had  become 
acquainted  at  Athens.  A  merry  mocking  fellow,  of  ex- 
haustless  pleasantry  ;  he  had  no  faith  in  any  God  except 
Voltaire,  the  mocker  of  all  Gods  ;  for  Achille,  the  scoffer 
at  authority, '  delighted  nevertheless  to  call  himself  a 
Voltairian.  One  other  authority  indeed  he  recognized  as 
supreme  ;  his  Parisian  cook.  I  had  before  noticed  that 
Achille  always  snarled  at  his  dinner,  and  then  fell  to  and 
ate  it  with  a  relish.  It  seems  that  he  had  taken  to-day  a 
short  excursion  from  Athens  to  the  country,  and  that, 
missing  the  road,  he  had  been  compelled  to  dine  with  a 
peasant  on  black  bread,  salted  olives,  an  oil  fry,  with  re- 


42  A   WALK  Itf  HELLAS. 

cinato.  Good  luck !  we  shall  now  have  a  merry  evening, 
I  exclaimed  on  seeing  him  ;  hut  Achille  at  once  hegan  to 
swear  violently,  employing  his  customary  French  oath : 
By  the  twenty-five  names  of  God !  What  is  the  matter, 
heroic  Achille?  He  told  his  story;  all  Greece,  what  she 
is  now  and  what  she  was  in  the  past,  her  literature,  art, 
history  were  on  the  spot  judged  and  condemned  in  the 
light  of  that  dinner.  He  even  went  back  to  old  Homel- 
and damned  him  and  his  Helen,  whereat  I  was  touched, 
and  attempted  to  reply  about  as  follows,  according  to  my 
recollection : 

"  My  dear  friend,  why  do  you  lay  so  much  stress  upon 
what  goes  into  your  stomach,  when  you  exhibit  such  con- 
temptible brain  work  as  the  final  outcome  of  digestion? 
Socrates  had  quite  the  same  kind  of  food  as  you  have  had, 
probably  not  so  good  with  Xanthippe  as  cook  — yet  what 
a  remarkable  difference  between  him  and  you !  Indeed 
Plato  himself  fared  no  better  in  all  likelihood,  yet  the 
sweetest  philosophy  of  the  world  he  extracted  therefrom, 
while  you  extract  the  sourest.  But  think  of  Homer 
whom  you  calumniate  —  he  could  have  had  only  bruised 
barley-meal,  bruised  between  two  stones  in  a  sort  of  mill, 
and  a  little  occasional  meat  at  some  festival  of  the 
Gods,  with  wine,  likely  enough  just  this  recinato  ;  yet  out 
of  his  bruised  barley-meal,  and  meat  roasted  before  the 
fire  on  a  spit,  together  with  the  wine  he  has  constructed 
the  most  beautiful  of  all  poetical  worlds  —  a  world  which 
stands  a  good  chance  of  being  the  most  enduring  as  well 
as  the  most  beautiful.  I  ask,  has  any  man  like  him  come 
out  of  Parisian  cookery?  Take  the  old  Greeks  —  what  a 
glorious  result  they  produced  from  their  oil,  olives  and 
barley !  Man  is  what  he  eats  is  your  favorite  saying ; 
then  give  me  the  food  of  those  old  Greeks  —  and  it  will  not 
hurt  you  to  take  not  one  but  many  dinners  of  it.  There- 
fore be  not  so  particular  about  what  you  put  into  your 
mill  unless  you  can  improve  the  flour.  I  tell  you  whom 
you  most  resemble  —  that  crazy  man  who  once  thought 
Jupiter  had  descended  from  Oh'mpiau  heights  and 
was  seated  on  a  throne  in  his  stomach.  Only  too  many 
such  lunatics  are  running  loose  in  these  days  —  people 


FEOM  PENTELICUS   TO  PARNES.  43 

who  have  their  God  in  their  bellies.  Achille,  let  us  now  go 
to  bed,  in  the  morning  yon  may  turn  back  to  the  city  for 
your  dinner,  but  I  am  going  to  continue  the  journey  and 
the  pursuit;  to-morrow  I  shall  ascend  some  Greek  mount- 
ain and  look  from  its  clear  heights,  or  possibly  march  with 
the  old  Hoplites  to  Marathon." 

But  Achille  long  continued  has  satirical  banter ;  partic- 
ularly my  euthusiam  for  Helen  was  the  theme  of  his  infi- 
nite mockery.  Under  his  hand  her  story  was  transformed 
into  a  modern  French  novel  of  illicit  love  ;  her  character 
grew  tenfold  more  dubious  than  I  had  ever  dreamed  of, 
as  he  poured  into  it  with  subtle  piquancy  all  the  details 
of  the  latest  Parisian  scandal.  Thus  with  no  small  skill 
and  with  very  manifest  relish  he  told  her  tale  anew,  brist- 
ling now  with  keen  points  of  ambiguous  ribaldry.  Nor 
did  he  spare  me ;  he  more  than  intimated  that  I  had 
come  to  Greece  to  play  the  part  of  Paris,  and  was  now 
going  up  the  country  to  run  away  with  the  wife  of  some 
peasant  Menelaus.  Overwhelmed  with  his  jibes,  I  could 
only  answer :  O  Achille,  thy  name  is  deserved,  thou  art 
indeed  the  French  Achilles. 

I  set  out  early  the  next  morning,  long  before  Achille 
my  tormentor  was  awake  ;  about  sunrise  I  was  in  full  walk 
for  some  further  destination,  having  resolved  to  go  on ; 
the  anxiety  from  brigands,  too,  had  quite  subsided.  I 
know  of  nothing  more  exhilarating  than  a  morning  walk 
at  this  season  of  the  year  in  Greece.  There  is  some  se- 
cret intoxication  in  the  air ;  every  mental  and  physical 
energy  sports  of  itself  in  frolicsome  mood,  yet  in  full  ten- 
sion. The  body  seeks  for  its  wings,  every  step  is  an 
attempt  to  fly,  man  has  become  a  festival  of  delightful 
sensation.  That  morning  still  lives  in  memory,  with  its 
exuberance  pf  happy  music  within,  its  symposium  of 
joyous  moods.  Yet  it  all  was  about  nothing  in  particu- 
lar ;  I  can  only  recollect  how  easily  my  feet  were  raised 
in  the  air,  and  how  hard  it  was  to  bring  them  down  to  the 
earth  again. 

Pentelicus,  not  far  from  whose  base  the  road  winds 
along,  is  still  capped  with  a  cloud  which  rests  on  it  with 
adamantine  stubbornness.  There  is  no  use  of  trying  to  go 


44  A    WALK  IX  HELLAS. 

to  the  summit;  you  can  see  nothing  and  will  lose  yourself 
in  addition.  But  on  the  other  side  of  this  valley,  distant 
but  a  few  miles  lies  Mount  Parnes ;  not  a  cloud  dares 
touch  its  tops  ;  the  snow  glistens  from  its  peaks  with  an 
unusual  keen  brilliancy  which  cuts  through  to  the  eye,  as 
it  glances  that  way.  Now  solve  for  me  this  riddle :  Why 
is  Pentelicus  always  covered  with  a  cloud  while  Parnes 
stands  forth  free  and  shines  with  unsullied  splendor? 
Locality,  height,  configuration  cannot  account  for  the  dif- 
ference ;  there  is  some  secret  which  nature  whispers  to 
set  you  at  work  in  a  deeper  vein.  Then  answer  this 
other  question  of  a  spiritual  kind:  Why  are  some  men's 
brains  wrapped  in  an  eternal  fog,  while  at  a  much  greater 
elevation  other  men's  thoughts  rest  in  everlasting  sun- 
shine ?  It  is  so  because  it  is  ;  at  any  rate  I  am  done  with 
foggy  Pentelicus,  for  I  now  intend  to  cross  over  to 
Parnes  where  it  is  clear  on  t]ie  highest  height. 

Thither  1  shall  try  to  take  you  along  with  me,  if  you 
think  the  company  good,  shall  let  you  have  a  fresh  breath 
of  the  mountain  air,  furnish  you  the  exhilaration  of  climb- 
ing the  sides  of  the  steep,  but  above  all  give  you  a  look 
from  the  top  over  this  Attic  land  ;  for  a  look  from  the  top 
of  a  mountain  in  Greece  is  the  best  way  of  seeing  the 
country  as  a  whole  and  of  feeling  its  highest  character- 
istic influence.  Thus  we  can  to  a  certain  extent  look 
down  into  this  honeycomb  of  mountainous  walls  and 
green  valleys  which  constitutes  the  physical  individuality 
of  Grecian  territory;  thus  too  we  behold  through  the 
transparent  atmosphere,  the  gently  swaying  curves  and 
outlines  which  Nature,  the  first  Greek  Artist,  has  toned 
down  into  tender  lines  of  beauty. 

But  here  I  pass  by  the  bridge  of  Pekirmes,  small  and 
insignificant,  yet  its  name  has  been  printed  in  every  lan- 
guage of  Europe.  Near  it  was  committed  that  famous 
act  of  brigandage  which  has  done  more  than  any  thing 
else  to  give  to  the  Greeks  of  to-day  a  bad  name  through- 
out the  civilized  world.  As  it  is  the  chief  text  from  which 
all  detractors  of  the  Greeks  preach,  as  it  has  deterred 
and  still  deters  the  majority  of  tourists  from  leaving 
Athens  or  its  immediate  vicinity,  as  it  was  the  main 


FROM  PENTELICUU   TO  PAENES.  45 

cause  of  my  hesitation  in  regard  to  this  trip,  I  shall 
deem  it  worth  while  to  give  a  little  account  of  it  here, 
and  to  introduce  it  hereafter  on  suitable  occasion.  For 
we  shall  find  the  affair  still  lives  among  the  peasantry,  in 
the  most  vivid  recollection,  and  with  many  a  mythical  ad- 
dition which  recalls  the  ancient  heroic  legend  ;  everywhere 
•  along  our  path  we  shall  see  it  bubbling  up  spontaneously 
and  demanding  some  notice  from  the  observant  traveler. 

Near  the  spot  where  we  have  arrived,  on  the  llth  day 
of  April,  1870,  a  party  of  English  excursionists  composed 
of  Lord  Muncaster  and  wife,  Mr.  Herbert  and  Mr.  Vyner, 
Mr.  Lloyd  with  wife  and  little  girl,  Count  De  Boyl  of  the 
Italian  embassy,  were  passing  in  two  carriages,  on  their 
return  from  a  visit  to  Marathon.  Two  cavalrymen  rode 
before  them,  two  behind  them,  for  the  purpose  of  escort. 
Suddenly  there  was  heard  a  discharge  of  fire-arms,  the 
two  troopers  in  front  fell  from  their  horses  dangerously 
wounded.  The  carriages  were  then  halted,  and  the  com- 
pany found  itself  surrounded  by  twenty-one  armed  men 
who  at  once  hurried  their  captives  up  the  mountain  into 
the  brush  with  many  demonstrations  of  joy  at  the  success- 
ful capture.  After  a  rapid  walk  of  two  hours  the  brig- 
ands stopped  on  the  top  of  the  mountain  ;  they  sent  back 
to  Athens  the  two  ladies  and  little  girl  as  being  obstacles 
to  the  sudden  and  speedy  inarches  in  prospect. 

The  ladies  were  bearers  of  notes  from  the  prisoners,  an- 
nouncing the  ransom  demanded  by  the  brigands  —  $160,- 
000  ;  which  sum  was  afterwards  reduced  to  $125,000  with 
new  conditions  of  a  harder  kind  than  even  gold.  Also  a 
threat  was  sent  to  the  Greek  government  that  in  case  of 
pursuit  the  lives  of  the  prisoners  would  be  at  once  taken. 
Not  without  avouch  of  gallantry  coupled  with  audacious 
avarice  were  these  wild  men  of  the  mountains.  "When  the 
ladies  set  out  for  Athens,  the  chieftain  asked  for  some 
precious  I'eminder  of  the  event ;  he  preferred  a  gold  chain 
which  the  lady  could  buy  and  send  from  the  city.  She 
on  her  part  with  a  coquettish  dash  worthy  of  the  ball- 
room, asked  of  the  chieftain  a  souvenir  of  their  agreeable 
intercourse.  Being  a  pious  man,  he  gave  her  a  religious 
token :  an  ornament  of  silver  wrought  with  the  head  of  the 


46  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

Virgin.  The  chain  was  in  due  time  transmitted  to  the 
brigand,  who  sent  it  back  by  the  same  messenger,  stating 
it  was  not  heaAry  enough. 

On  the  third  day  after  the  capture,  Lord  Muncaster 
himself  appeared  at  Athens,  having  been  released  on 
parole  to  arrange  for  ransom  or  free  pardon  of  the  offend- 
ers ;  such  was  the  alternative  which  he  brought.  There ' 
was  little  question  which  of  the  two  things  ought  to  be 
done;  the  money,  $125,000  in  gold,  was  soon  packed  in 
boxes,  ready  for  transport  to  the  mountains  in  proper 
business  fashion.  Behold,  however,  a  new  turn  given  to 
the  proceedings  by  the  arrival  of  another  message  from 
the  chieftain  who  now  insists  upon  ransom  and  pardon ; 
amnesty  is  his  new  word,  that  is,  forgetfulness  —  forget- 
fullness  of  this  and  all  his  past  crimes  and  those  of  his 
band,  during  a  life  of  outlawry.  Clearly  brigandage  has 
become  a  power,  a  Great  Power,  and  is  claiming  recogni- 
tion among  the  governments  of  the  world.  The  chieftain 
also  demanded  the  release  of  several  members  of  his  gang 
who  had  been  previously  captured  and  who  were  then  in 
prison  at  Athens. 

So  a  new  European  Power  has  suddenly  sprung  up  on 
the  declivity  of  Pentelicus,  and  is  determined  to  treat  with 
the  other  Great  Powers  on  terms  of  equality.  Beside  the 
Greek  government,  the  English  and  Italian  embassies  send 
messages,  and  all  the  other  embassies  at  Athens  take  a 
hand  in  the  game,  sending  representatives  to  the  court  of 
Takos  Arvanitika,  King  of  Pentelicus.  The  diplomats 
have  got  the  matter  in  their  toils ;  what  hand  will  now  be 
able  to  disentangle  the  complication  ?  Like  all  diplomacy, 
the  affair  becomes  a  highly  intricate  kitten-dance;  the 
employment  of  the  diplomatic  kittens  being  chiefly  to  run 
after  their  own  tails  —  perchance  to  catch  the  same  in 
their  mouths,  and  then  let  go  again.  During  this  play  of 
the  kittens,  otherwise  harmless  and  even  amusing  at  times, 
who  can  hope  for  any  serious  rat-catching,  now  impera- 
tively needed  ?  You  may  perhaps  ask :  Who  would  ex- 
pect such  work  from  kittens  anyhow?  The  point  seems 
well  taken. 

Meanwhile   the   prisoners  are  roughing  it  out  on  the 


FROM  PENTELICUS   TO  PABNES.  47 

mountain — sleeping  on  bushes,  eating  black  bread  and 
goat's  cheese,  with  occasional  roast  lamb  or  roast  goat, 
and  drinking  that  horrible  recinato  which  tastes  like  a 
mouthful  of  sealing-wax.  Well-fed  Johnny  Bull  has  cer- 
tainly a  good  reason  for  making  wry  faces  at  such  a  meal. 
Think  of  him  out  there  as  he  squats  down  to  his  repast  in 
the  open  air,  with  that  fat  face  of  his,  through  which  the 
red  fibers  run  as  through  a  thick  beefsteak.  We  would 
like  to  help  him  though  we  laugh  at  him  a  little ;  for  every- 
body says  that  there  is  no  danger,  and  the  first  London 
newspaper  has  called  the  whole  affair  a  comedy,  at  which 
the  world  is  supposed  to  have  the  right  of  being  merry. 

One  of  the  party,  let  us  give  thanks,  is  safe ;  Lord 
Muncaster  did  not  return  to  the  chieftain,  though  he  had 
promised  to  do  so.  There  is  no  man  of  a  generojis  soul 
who  will  not  be  glad,  if  the  noble  Lord  shall  be  able  to 
find  some  moral  peg  stout  enough  to  hold  that  violation 
of  his  parole.  I  have  heard  of  two  such  pegs :  first,  that 
the  brigands  changed  their  terms  after  he  had  been  sent 
and  had  obtained  the  money,  thus  fulfilling  his  part  of  the 
agreement  and  being  thereby  released  from  his  word. 
Another  pog  not  so  strong  apparently :  that  the  brigands 
had  changed  their  locality  in  his  absence  while  he  had 
promised  to  return  only  to  a  given  spot.  Query :  ought 
he  to  have  returned  anyhow?  You,  my  hearers — each 
one  of  you  —  what  would  you  have  done  ?  Would  you 
have  gone  back,  like  Regulus  to  Carthage,  or  would  you 
have  cried :  Alas,  I  am  no  hero,  I  am  not  anxious  for 
posthumous  fame  among  unknown  future  generations ! 

Here  we  shall  have  to  leave  the  prisoners  exposed  to  the 
raw  weather  of  Pentelicus,  complaining  of  the  hard  fare 
and  of  the  cold  rains.  One  of  the  brigands  has  to  sleep 
close  to  young  weakly  Mr.  Vyner  to  keep  him  warm,  out 
of  compassion,  we  hope,  and  not  for  fear  of  losing  his 
ransom  through  his  death.  Not  a  desirable  bedfellow, 
one  thinks,  is  that  dirty  fustanella.  The  affair  must 
struggle  on  in  the  diplomatic  web  till  some  outside  power 
brush  the  obstacle  away.  Meanwhile  we  shall  trudge 
forward,  at  our  customary  slow  gait,  yet  often  stopping 
to  look  over  the  pleasant  landscape,  wholly  dismissing  the 


.48  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

problem  concerning  what  we  should  do  if  such  a  band  of 
wild  men  should  suddenly  pounce  down  upon  us  from  the 
mountain.  We  shall  repeatedly  cross  the  track  of  these 
brigands  with  their  captives  ;  then  we  shall  tell  something 
more  about  them,  as  one  thread  of  our  little  novel  here 
interwoven,  being  careful  not  to  tell  all  at  once,  for  that 
would  destroy  curiosity. 

We  have  already  crossed  over  the  intervening  valley 
watered  by  the  Athenian  Kephissus,  and  have  begun  the 
ascent  of  Parnes.  Let  us  take  a  long  step  uphill,  and 
set  our  feet  down  at  Tatoe,  ancient  Dekeleia,  which  was 
fortified  by  the  Lacedemonians  during  the  Peloponuesian 
war.  From  this  mountain  nest  the  enemy  darted  down 
and  laid  waste  the  Attic  territory,  at  the  same  time  con- 
trolling important  roads  leading  to  Athens.  In  recent 
years  the  King  of  Greece  has  built  a  summer  residence 
here,  with  beautiful  grounds  and  well-made  roads.  The 
royal  family  is  at  present  in  the  city,  but  the  grounds  are 
open  to  the  visitor.  To  the  rear  of  the  dwellings  are  the 
barracks  of  the  soldiers  who  are  here  to  guard  the  per- 
sons of  their  majesties.  I  am  sorry  that  I  shall  not  have 
an  opportunity  of  introducing  you  to  King  George  and 
Queen  Olga  with  their  interesting  group  of  children. 
Still  I  cannot  help  whispering  to  you  my  doubt  about  hav- 
ing such  an  opportunity,  even  if  they  were  here.  Notice 
these  broad,  thick'-soled  shoes,  this  knapsack  and  knotted 
staff,  this  long  stride  of  the  pedestrian  ;  clearly  there  is 
not  dignity  enough  to  appear  before  royalty.  Notice,  too, 
this  unceremonious  narrative,  defying  all  conventionality ; 
quick,  let  us  get  out  of  these  royal  grounds,  so  regular, 
so  rectilinear ;  let  us  mount,  through  nature's  brushwood 
and  boulders,  to  the  rugged  top  of  old  Parnes. 

But  here  quite  a  large  company  passes  —  twenty  per- 
sons or  more  — on  an  excursion  from  Athens.  They  are 
English  chiefly,  and  are  carefully  guarded  by  a  platoon 
of  soldiers.  Let  them  pass  rapidly,  for  their  rear  is 
brought  up  by  a  Scotch  lassie,  straggling  at  her  own  sweet 
will,  and  quite  independent  of  the  rest  of  the  company ; 
then  I  follow,  at  some  distance  at  first,  but  gradually  ap- 
proaching, with  the  intent  of  finding  a  pretext  for  getting 


FROM  PENTELICUS    TO  PARNES.  49 

acquainted.  All  strangers  thrown  together  in  a  foreign 
laud  have  a  natural  right  to  acquaintanceship  without  an 
introduction,  subject  of  course,  to  the  refusal  of  either 
party.  This  is  my  unwritten  law,  at  least,  and  I  am  trying 
to  obey  it  now. 

Why  should  I  recount  to  you  all  the  details  —  the  first 
glance,  the  first  little  act  of  attention,  the  first  little 
word  —  the  English  word  spoken  in  a  strange  land  to  a 
native  ear  sympathetically  attuned  to  its  sweet  sound? 
But  do  not  expect  too  much,  my  hearers  ;  nor  should  you 
love  gossip.  The  Scotch  lassie  is  a  hard-headed,  imper- 
turbable person,  who  is  going  to  fight  her  own  battle, 
and  just  now  she  is  going  to  climb  this  mountain  in  her 
own  fashion  without  any  assistance  from  anybody. 
Plump,  with  red-faced  energy,  she  grapples  the  shaggy 
sides  of  the  old  monster  determined  to  ride  him  and  not 
be  thrown.  Not  much  poetry  there  is  in  her,  but  there  is 
plenty  of  raillery  ;  over  the  ,  mountain  rings  her  merry 
laugh  which  reveals  rows  of  teeth  overlapping  each  other 
like  Scotch  granite.  Under  her  very  laugh  you  can  see 
granitic  virtues  of  many  kinds. 

As  we  gradually  ascend,  the  country  unrolls  before  us. 
All  the  mountain  ranges  can  now  be  distinguished ;  even 
the  high  peaks  of  Euboea  we  behold  running  along  and 
finally  gathering  into  one  highest  summit,  like  the  hunch- 
back of  a  dromedary.  The  Scotch  lassie  tugs  up  through 
the  bushes,  pufling,  growing  redder ;  she  is  sometimes 
caught  and  held  fast  in  the  arms  of  a  rude  bramble  as  if 
an  old  satyr,  hidden  there,  had  reached  out  from  the  twigs 
and  sought  to  embrace  her,  the  rascal !  She  refuses  all 
assistance,  she  can  help  herself,  and  takes  pride  in  show- 
ing it,  as  she  clambers  up  the  rough  sides  of  a  rock,  get- 
ting down  on  alf  fours.  Yet  she  can  not  be  said  to  be  • 
unfriendly;  does  she  not  point  out  to  me  the  scenery 
which  changes  every  moment  with  the  change  of  the  clouds 
and  sunshine  —  now  light,  now  dark,  in  hurrying  patches 
over  the  landscape  ?  She  does  indeed  want  somebody  to 
enjoy  along  with  her :  so  much  of  human  frailty  she  still 
dimly  reveals. 

Under   a   strong  wind  a  dense  cloud  drives  against  the 


50  A    WALK  IX  HELLAti. 

side  of  the  mountain  where  we  are  standing ;  we  see  it 
approaching  and  covering  us  with  thick  folds ;  it  sheds 
upon  us  a  little  of  its  moisture,  then  like  a  huge  ball  it  is 
rolled  topsy-turvy  up  the  slope,  over  the  summit,  and 
disappears  on  the  other  side,  leaving  the  summit  as  bright 
as  ever.  Parnes  manifestly  will  suffer  no  obscuration, 
but  Pentelicus  yonder  still  sullenly  wraps  its  head  in  fog. 

Finally  we  arrive  at  the  top  where  are  the  foundations 
of  an  ancient  temple.  What  a  beautiful  situation  for  a 
religious  edifice,  to  be  seen  from  afar,  shining  up  here  in 
white  Pentelic  marble !  Every  old  Greek  into  whose  eye  it 
fell  from  this  high  spot,  as  it  were  from  the  Heavens,  would 
experience  a  new  joy  at  its  quiet  beauty,  as  he  looked  up 
at  it  from  yonder  valley.  From  the  summits  of  the 
highest  mountains  these  temples  must  have  spoken  to  the 
man  below  of  aspiration,  of  the  labor  of  attaining  the 
end,  of  the  beautiful  harmony  when  that  end  is  attained. 
Let  the  aim  be  high  —  behold  it  can  be  realized,  if  he  but 
climb.  Hither  he  laboriously  toiled  up  to  worship  —  the 
ascent  being  a  part  of  his  devotion,  the  toil  being  a  part 
of  his  prayer.  Else  why  is  this  temple  placed  up  here  ? 

The  Scotch  lassie  is  not  satisfied  to  go  back  with 
me  into  the  old  structure,  build  it  anew,  and  worship  with 
me  there  —  she  is  a  rigid  Scotch  Presbyterian.  Instead 
of  enjoying  these  ancient  serene  harmonies,  she  wishes 
to  struggle  up  higher,  and  points  to  the  top  of  a  very 
steep  precipitous  cliff  which  even  overlooks  the  site  of 
the  temple.  That  rock  seems  to  be  the  last  and  strongest 
convulsion  of  Parnes  in  the  ancient  of  days  —  there  it 
quivers  upward  in  an  agony  frozen  to  stone,  jagged,  dis- 
torted, unfriendly.  Thither  accordingly  we  go ;  upon  the 
point  of  a  rocky  splinter  she  sits  down  and  seems  for  the 
moment  to  be  happy.  I  straighten  myself  up  beside 
her. 

Now,  my  hearers,  imagine  me  perched  up  there  on  the 
very  highest  peak  of  the  last  throe  of  Parnes ;  on  tiptoe  I 
stand,  looking  down  into  the  plain  of  Kephissus  —  what 
do  you  think  I  behold?  Far  to  the  right  I  can  see  Athens ; 
the  Parthenon  rises  to  view  there ;  even  from  this  distance 
its  whole  plan  and  character  can  be  grasped  and  felt. 


FROM  PENTELICUS   TO  PAKNES.  51 

There  it  lies  in  the  sun,  small  but  joyous  as  ever ;  though 
no  larger  than  your  hand  it  produces  the  same  happy, 
harmonious  impression  as  if  you  stood  on  the  Acropolis 
itself.  I  believe  this  to  be  a  supreme  characteristic  of 
that  edifice:  its  proportions  can  not  be  obliterated  by 
distance.  Nor  forget,  ere  it  passes  out  of  sight,  another 
distinction  which  it  possesses  above  all  structures :  it  is 
not  a  mathematical  measurement,  but  it  has  the  spon- 
taneity of  a  lyric,  it  is  an  impulse  in  stone. 

But  there  is  something  else  which  I  see,  and  see  very 
distinctly,  though  the  Scotch  lassie  laughs  at  me  when  I 
try  to  point  it  out  to  her.  Yonder  just  across  the  valley 
a  long  line  of  men  is  marching  round  the  base  of  Pente- 
licus  ;  the  line  extends  down  the  road  toward  Kephissia ; 
those  men  have  evidently  come  from  Athens  within  the 
last  few  hours.  The  shining  helm  and  buckler  flash 
across  the  vale ;  the  spears  in  serried  ranks  with  sharp 
brilliant  points  glitter  above  their  heads ;  fair  youths 
on  plunging  war-steeds  bring  up  the  rear.  Rapid  is 
their  tread ;  those  men  are  manifestly  in  a  great  hurry, 
yet  they  set  their  feet  down  on  the  earth  with  a  firmness 
that  makes  old  Parnes  quake  to  the  very  top.  But  be- 
hold another  miracle :  the  clouds  lift  from  the  sides  of 
Pentelicus  and  slowly  vanish  into  the  clear  sky  above ; 
there  is  revealed  beyond  it  the  plain  of  Marathon.  In- 
numerable beings  are  swarming  there  like  ants  ;  thousands 
of  white  sails  are  making  pale  the  sparkling  face  of 
beautiful  blue  Euripus.  Still  the  Scotch  lassie  laughs, 
laughs  contemptuously,  and  calls  me  a  dreamer. 

Nevertheless,  the  line  of  men  continues  marching  with 
steady  tread,  I  affirm,  for  they  have  a  purpose,  indeed 
rather  the  greatest  purpose  in  the  world's  history. 
Several  persons  who  might  be  named,  can  be  distinguished 
from  this  distance  ;  still  their  names  are  often  rehearsed 
as  a  sort  of  sacred  symbols  of  the  race.  But  incontestably 
the  first  man  of  them  all,  —  the  embodiment  of  his  nation, 
the  bearer  of  Europe's  hopes  —  is  marching  yonder  at  the 
head  of  that  column.  See,  now  they  have  turned  around 
Pentelicus,  and  are  wheeling  toward  the  Euboic  Straits. 
Who  are  they,  do  you  ask?  They  are  Miltiades  and 


52  A    WALK  Itf  HELLAS. 

his  10,000  Hoplites,  hastening  to  the  plain  of  Marathon. 
Not  long  ago  the  news  arrived  at  Athens  that  the  Persian 
had  landed  there ;  the  trumpet  sounds,  the  soldiers  rush 
to  arms,  the  command  is  given :  Fall  in  and  close  ranks  — 
march !  In  six  hours  from  Athens,  with  a  sharp  gait,  we 
shall  meet  the  foe. 

What  shall  I  do,  what  would  you  do,  standing  tiptoe  on 
the  top  of  Panics  and  seeing  that  body  of  men  pass  up  the 
valley  not  far  away  ?  I  at  once  bid  good-bye  to  the  Scotch 
lassie,  leaping  down  from  my  position,  and  hastening 
along  the  bushy  slope  ;  I  do  not  believe  that  Helen  herself 
could  have  kept  me  there  any  longer.  I  am  going  to 
follow  those  soldiers  round  the  spur  of  the  mountain 
whither  they  have  gone,  with  as  little  delay  as  possible ; 
of  all  soldiers  that  have  marched  in  our  world,  they  are 
most  worthy  of  being  followed.  Next  then  is  the 
campaign  to  Marathon,  and  I  see  that  you  all  —  every  one 
of  you,  if  my  vanity  does  not  blind  me  —  have  taken  your 
places  in  the  ranks  and  are  eager  to  march.  Forward, 
then,  to  Marathon. 


III.  FROMPARNES  TO  MARATHON. 

When  you  last  saw  me,  I  had  hurriedly  started  down 
Parnes  to  Marathon,  with  the  design  of  taking  you  along, 
if  I  could.  It  was  a  sudden  spurt  of  enthusiastic  haste, 
not  wholly  consonant  with  the  golden  leisure  of  this  Greek 
trip ;  nor  did  the  time  allow,  for  the  Sun  had  already 
turned  his  face  away  from  his  Oriental  home,  and  was 
then  casting  his  full  effulgence  somewhere  on  the  Atlantic 
seas.  Accordingly  we  may  resume  our  customary  gait 
and  saunter  along  the  road  till  night-fall,  when  we  shall 
seek  some  shelter  provided  by  the  Gods. 

Unceremoniously  I  took  leave  of  the  Scotch  lassie  —  so 
I  think  as  I  glance  back  with  a  little  longing  up  the 
mountain.  But  such  friendships  made  during  the  hours 
of  travel  are  usually  dissolved  as  quickly  as  they  are 
formed ;  they  are  the  most  evanescent  feature  of  the  land- 


FEOM  PAENES   TO  MARATHON.  53 

scape.  Still,  travelers  on  the  whole  will  do  well  to  obey 
that  unwritten  law  which  has  before  been  announced :  to 
consider  themselves  acquainted  without  the  formality  of  an 
introduction.  Thus  several  hours  rapidly  fly  with  pleas- 
ant talk,  and  the  two  faces  having  come  from  the  utter- 
most corners  of  the  earth  to  peer  into  each  other,  and  even 
to  exchange  sympathetic  glances,  again  flit  into  infinite 
space  —  sometimes  not  without  a  mutual  sigh.  So  the 
Scotch  lassie's  life-road  with  its  manifold  turnings  and 
windings  crossed  my  rather  crooked  track  of  existence 
out  here  on  Parnes  ;  for  four  hours  or  so  our  two  paths 
ran  together  with  gentle  intertwiniugs,  then  separated  to 
all  eternity,  probably.  But  who  can  tell  ?  Perhaps  like 
that  Greek  nymph  Arethusa,  nymph  of  the  fountain,  she 
may  disappear  in  Greece,  but  may  invisibly  pass  under- 
ground across  continents,  nay,  across  oceans,  and  suddenly 
come  to  the  surface  again  in  far-distant,  unexpected 
places?  At  any  rate  let  the  pleasing  phantom  now 
vanish  —  with  one  last  glance  at  the  red  cheeks  and 
wreathed  smiles,  and  I  cannot  help  adding,  with  a  re- 
newed look  at  those  layers  of  Scotch  granite  slightly 
overlapping  each  other,  well-polished  but  somewhat  awry, 
always  seen  but  more  strongly  felt  beneath  her  very  laugh. 
She  is  not  unlovely,  but  made  of  adamant  that  is  a  little 
crooked.  She,  with  that  round  visage  and  those  granitic 
virtues  is  not  Helen  —  though  she  may  justly  be  called,  I 
have  no  doubt,  a  better  woman. 

And  here,  since  we  have  contemplatively  resumed  our 
ordinary  slow  gait,  a  reflection  has  intertwined  itself  in 
the  strand  of  our  experiences.  This  conflict  between  the 
Moral  and  the  Beautiful  — where  does  it  begin  and  where 
does  it  end  ?  ,One  fact  seems  to  be  well  certified :  Art 
and  Morality  have  a  tendency  to  become  mortal  enemies  ; 
they  have  been  in  a  death-grapple  since  the  time  of  ancient 
Homer  at  least,  with  much  fluctuation  of  victory  from  one 
side  to  the  other.  Can  they  be  reconciled  ?  That  is  one 
of  the  most  serious  questions  of  the  human  soul.  There  is 
doubtless  a  limit  within  which  they  may  exist  in  harmony, 
indeed  may  be  helpful  to  each  other.  But  every  person 
is  inclined  to  place  this  limit  at  his  own  discretion,  and 


54  A    WALK  Iff  HELLAS. 

often  to  place  it  quite  out  of  being.  Certainly  the  ex- 
tremists on  both  sides  are  always  in  unappeasable  conflict. 
Rigid  Puritanism  would  destroy  Art  root  and  branch  ;  it 
has  no  solution  for  the  Senses  of  man  except  the  most 
violent  repression.  Such  a  view  may  prevail  for  a  time, 
may  even  come  to  govern  nations ;  but  then  follows  the 
fierce  revolt  of  the  Senses  with  tenfold  retaliation  for  the 
wrong  done  them.  In  such  a  debauch  both  Art  and 
Morality  perish  by  the  same  licentious  excess. 

But  Art,  on  the  other  hand,  is  inclined  to  cultivate  the 
sensuous  nature  of  man  and  neglect  the  moral.  Consider 
those  old  Greeks,  the  supreme  artistic  people  of  the  world, 
in  their  chief  fable.  Did  they  not  cross  the  sea  and  fight 
ten  years  in  order  to  bring  back  Helen,  not  because  she 
was  a  good  woman — good  women  they  had  at  home  in 
abundance  and  had  left  l>ehind  —  but  because  she  was  the 
most  beautiful  woman.  It  is  only  a  legend,  let  it  be 
granted  ;  therefore  it  is  truer  than  history,  and  it  reflects 
more  purely  and  adequately  than  history  the  spirit  of  that 
people  who  created  it.  Then,  too,  what  a  large  number 
of  good  women  were  sacrificed  for  the  sake  of  Helen, 
represented  in  Iphigenia  the  innocent  virgin,  Andromache 
the  devoted  wife !  Thus  it  has  been  with  men  ever  since, 
more  or  less ;  they  make  long  pilgrimages  across  the 
world  in  search  of  Helen,  when  there  are  plenty  of  good 
women,  indeed  better  women  than  Helen  at  home.  What 
is  the  meaning  of  it  all,  has  been  a  great  query  with  the 
traveler,  and  it  is  also  a  question  of  considerable  impor- 
tance to  those  who  have  been  left  behind. 

Man  would  not  be  man,  could  not  exist  as  a  living 
being,  had  he  not  these  passions  and  senses ;  they  can  not 
be  rooted  out,  ought  not  to  be  rooted  out,  which  deraci- 
nation  the  ascetic  view  of  morality  would  have  us  at- 
tempt. What  then  shall  we  do  with  them?  They  may 
become  the  sources  of  the  purest  pleasures  or  the  scourge 
of  the  direst  vices :  get  rid  of  them  we  can  not.  Here  Art 
steps  in  where  the  rigid  moralist  has  failed ;  it  says :  Pre- 
serve the  passions  and  senses,  but  elevate  them ;  allow 
them  not  to  batten  on  themselves,  but  give  them  the 
spiritual  world  to  feed  upon ;  thus  they  will  be  satisfied 


FROM  PAKNES  TO  MARATHON.        55 

and  saved,  for  they  have  attained  the  Beautiful,  and  in 
that  realm  become  sharers  in  what  is  truly  divine.  Helen 
simply  as  the  runaway  wife  is  not  beautiful,  nor  did  the 
old  Greek  think  that  she  was,  hence  his  tremendous  effort 
to  rescue  her  from  her  ugly  condition.  But  Helen,  re- 
pentant, self-accusing,  longing  for  restoration,  as  she 
appears  in  the  Iliad ;  still  more,  Helen  restored,  living  in 
happy  unity  with  her  family  in  the  Spartan  home  of  Men- 
elaus  once  again,  as  she  appears  in  the  Odyssey  —  this 
Helen,  showing  the  long  struggle  overcome,  is  beautiful, 
though  morality  still  shakes  the  head,  and  will  not  admit 
her  to  good  society.  Always  jealous  of  her  beauty,  it 
seeks  to  discredit  her  present  life  by  her  past. 

Indeed  if  we  scan  the  legend  a  little  more  closely  we 
shall  see  that  it  contains  the  conflict  which  we  speak  of 
and  its  solution.  What  caused  Helen  to  err,  or  what,  at 
least,  was  the  occasion?  It  was  Beauty  in  its  sensuous 
manifestation ;  the  bl6oming  young  wife  of  the  Spartan 
King,  the  fairest  woman  of  Greece,  breaks  the  ethical  in- 
junction, abandons  her  husband,  and  flees  with  the  hand- 
some Asiatic.  It  is  thus  the  eternal  theme :  the  sensuous 
element  of  Beauty  in  conflict  with  morality.  But  what 
did  the  old  Greek  do  in  presence  of  such  a  problem  ?  Did 
he  banish  her  entirely  to  the  world  of  sensuality,  and 
thus  damn  her  forever?  Did  he  even  let  her  quietly  go 
and  remain  in  her  alienation?  No,  that  he  could  not  do 
with  his  consciousness ;  restoration  is  his  watchword. 
Helen  the  Beautiful  must  be  able  to  live  in  the  family, 
though  it  cost  ten  or  twenty  years'  war,  though  we  have 
to.  sacrifice  Iphigenia  and  many  other  good  women,  though 
we  immolate  our  greatest  national  hero,  the  youthful 
Achilles,  and  many  other  mighty  and  worthy  men  in  the 
enterprise.  T'his  must  be  accomplished  —  this  return  of 
the  beautiful  woman  to  the  family,  this  harmony  of  the 
sensuous  and  ethical  nature  of  man  ;  otherwise  the  Greek 
people  can  not  be,  have  no  business  to  be.  It  was  their 
problem  in  this  world,  and  manfully  they  fought  it  out, 
producing  the  typical  figures  for  all  time  —  those  heroic 
characters  after  which  mankind  instinctively  models  itself 
or  finds  itself  already  modeled. 


56  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

And  then  what  a  harmonious  world  resulted!  The 
living  man  became  the  first  work  of  art  which  afterwards 
could  be  embodied  in  everlasting  marble.  There  is  the 
happy  balance  between  the  real  and  ideal,  between  the 
Senses  and  Morals  of  men,  between  Art  and  Virtue. 
Homer  is  indeed  not  the  most  rigidly  moral  of  books  ;  it 
would  not  be  worth  much  if  it  were ;  but  of  all  artistic 
books  it  is  doubtless  the  most  moral.  Ulysses,  for  ex- 
ample, always  trying  to  harmonize  his  outer  and  inner 
life,  seeking  to  make  a  complete  man  of  himself  through 
the  most  violent  contradictions,  is  still  the  best  develop- 
ment of  character  in  this  realm.  How  the  two  sides 
gradually  fell  asunder  in  Greece  itself,  how  morality  be- 
came ascetic  and  art  became  licentious,  how  the  phil- 
osophers assailed  poetry  —  even  Plato  banished  Homer 
from  his  imaginary  republic —  how  the  Idt-al  was,  on  the 
one  hand,  utterly  destroyed  in  this  world  by  the  hard- 
headed,  practical  Roman,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  was 
relegated  into  the  Beyond  by  the  prayerful,  spiritual 
Christian  —  all  these  matters  belong  to  History,  —  and 
even  our  slow  and  pensive  gait  will  not  allow  us  to  pick 
them  up  and  string  them  on  our  variegated  thread. 

Yet  do  not  think  that  this  change  from  the  ancient  world 
to  the  modern  is,  on  the  whole,  to  be  regretted  ;  it  is  in- 
deed an  advance.  Do  not  imagine  that  I  wish  to  restore 
the  old  Greek  life  ;  vain  would  it  be  for  any  mortal  with 
combative  spirit  to  turn  his  face  against  the  World's 
History.  Let  no  man  with  puny  hand  undertake  to  grasp 
the  reins  and  wheel  jibout  the  mighty  steeds  of  the  sun- 
chariot,  now  rushing  at  the  top  of  their  speed  toward  the 
West,  in  their  swift  career  around  the  world.  They  have 
swept  over  the  ocean  ;  almost  within  the  memory  of  living 
men  they  have  sped  from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific ; 
still  with  increased  rapidity  and  fiery  vigor  they  are  whirl- 
ing onward  their  light-dropping  chariot.  No  longer  can 
those  steeds  be  turned  out  for  quiet  pasture  on  the  sunny 
hills  of  pretty  little  Hellas.  Yet  for  us  that  is  still  the 
world  of  beauty  and  of  sweet  idyllic  rest ;  we  are  still  in 
need  of  its  soothing  harmonies,  and  we  have  to  go  back 
to  its  perennial  fountains  for  refreshment  and  repose. 


FROM  PAKNES   TO  MARATHON.  57 

Therefore  let  no  Scotch  lassie  appear  any  longer  in  Greece 
with  her  granitic  beauty  and  more  granitic  Scotch 
Presbyterianism.  Personally  she  commands  our  highest 
respect,  but  in  the  country  of  Helen  we  would  ask: 
"  What  art  thou  doing  here,  thou  specter  from  the  land  of 
mist  and  snow,  here  in  the  sunlit  fields  of  Apollo?  In 
the  regions  of  adamant  and  ice  is  thy  home ;  there  too  is 
thy  meed." 

I  have  already  intimated  that  it  is  too  late  to  go  to 
Marathon  this  evening,  however  much  enthusiasm  may 
goad  the  drooping  limbs  ;  accordingly  1  stay  atTatoe  over 
night.  Early  the  next  morning  I  set  out  across  the  valley, 
following  those  ancient  soldiers  whom  I  had  seen  yester- 
day, and  whom  I  hope  you  beheld.  It  is  true  that  there 
is  now  and  was  in  antiquity  another  road  from  Athens  to 
Marathon,  over  which  some  of  the  soldiers  may  have 
passed  to  the  field  of  battle,  but  the  bulk  of  the  army  went 
up  this  road  ;  for  did  we  not  see  them?  'Tis  all  imagina- 
tion, some  of  you  may  cry  out :  be  it  so.  But  I  maintain 
that  the  great  eternal  fact  of  this  spot  and  of  this  whole 
valley  is  the  march  of  the  Marathonian  band.  Look  up 
to  the  hill-tops  and  ask :  has  there  ever  been  any  thing 
else  here  but  that  one  event,  which  posesses  any  vitality  ? 
Look  up  once  more  and  question  the  landscape :  is  there 
any  thing  now  here  but  the  green  fields,  the  low  brush,  the 
stream  Kephissus  —  and  that  marching  line  of  old  Athenian 
soldiers?  I  would  never  have  been  onParnes,  you  would 
never  go  thither,  no  tourist  would  ever  be  passing  con- 
templatively up  the  valley,  were  it  not  for  the  presence  of 
those  old  Hoplites.  I  tell  you,  the  most  distinct,  the  most 
enduring,  the  most  real  thing  in  all  these  parts  at  this 
moment  is  the  march  of  that  Marathonian  band ;  in  fact 
there  is  nothing  else  here. 

I  am  free  to  say  that,  when  I  am  on  the  road  again,  I 
do  nothing  but  think  of  them,  the  heavy-armed,  with 
steady  silent  tread  winding  around  the  spur  of  the  mount- 
ain before  me  ;  with  the  low  dull  thud  of  many  feet  they 
tramp  along  the  causeway,  and  I  with  knapsack  on  my 
shoulder,  fall  into  their  measured  gait  and  march  along, 
keeping  their  regular  steady  step,  bound  for  Marathon. 


58  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

In  reflective  mood,  I  should  say  the  most  of  them  were, 
as  the  soldier  usually  is  when  going  into  the  uncertain 
combat..  But  what  one  of  them  had  the  remotest  thought 
of  that  which  he  with  his  companions  was  doing  —  of  the 
place  they  were  filling  just  at  that  moment  in  the  history 
and  destiny  of  our  planet?  Thus  are  we  all,  could  we  but 
see  ;  each  individual  is  some  unconscious  earth-sustaining 
Atlas.  For  man,  every  man,  is  ttje  instrument  of  an  al- 
mighty power  which  brings  him  here  and  makes  him  a 
link  in  the  chain  which  supports  the  All.  Alas,  poor 
mortal,  with  the  full  burden  of  his  weakness  upon  him,  he 
must  aid  in  holding,  or  rather  as  a  link  he  must  actually 
hold  up  the  whole  Universe. 

But  to  drop  a  little  down  the  stream  of  Time :  there  is 
another  vivid  image  darting  through  the  air  and  vanishing 
amid  the  brushwood  just  in  the  locality  to  which  I  have 
now  come ;  another  man  passed  up  the  road  in  recent 
years  whom  I  would  not  care  to  meet  at  present  in  this 
solitude.  It  was  Takos  Arvanitaka,  the  brigand  chief  with 
his  band,  also  to  be  called  Marathonian,  whom  not  long 
ago  we  saw  installed  as  King  of  Pentelicus.  Somewhere 
here  he  passed  across  the  valley  to  andfromTatoe,  guard- 
ing savagely  his  English  captives,  as  we  find  in  a  small 
diary  kept  by  one  of  them  ;  he  also  went  to  Stamata,  the 
next  village,  where  we  shall  arrive  in  due  season  if  some 
successor  of  his  does  not  capture  us  too.  Those  brigands, 
dragging  their  unhappy  prisoners  through  the  bushes, 
dodging  the  Greek  soldiery  in  pursuit,  tiger-fierce  with 
continuous  alarm  and  in  one  case  preparing  to  shoot  their 
prisoners  in  cold  blood,  present  quite  a  contrast  to  that 
ancient  line  of  heroic  shapes  rounding  in  solid  tread  the 
mountain.  The  wretched  picture  let  us  not  try  to  fill  out, 
it  is  too  melancholy,  it  will  obscure  the  brightness  of  our 
Greek  mood,  which  we  must  preserve  in  the  joyous  sun- 
light of  Hellas,  through  which  we  move  as  through  a  thick 
rain-fall  of  golden  dreams  dropping  from  the  skies. 

We  may,  however,  at  this  point  introduce  a  short  ac- 
count of  these  brigands.  They,  except  two,  were  subjects 
of  Turkey  and  did  not  live  in  Greece  at  all,  but  in  Thes- 
saly.  They  had  crossed  the  Greek  frontier  in  January 


FROM  PAENES  TO  MARATHON.        59 

preceding  the  capture,  had  previously  had  at  least  two 
brushes  with  the  soldiers  of  the  Greek  government,  ia 
which  the  band  had  lost  seven  men.  They  were  tracked 
from  place  to  place  but  finally  gained  their  mountain  fast- 
nesses. Though  they  belonged  to  the  Greek  church,  and 
spoke  Greek,  yet  their  nationality  was  not  Greek,  but 
Wallachian. 

Diplomacy  during  all  this  while  continues  spinning, 
spinning,  with  little  purpose  except  to  delay ;  in  the  mean- 
time the  brigands  encouraged  by  their  friends  and  elated 
by  success  have  risen  in  their  demands  until  they  ask  for 
that  to  which  no  government  can  accede  without  absolute 
self-annihilation.  They  now  insist  upon  a  full  pardon  for 
all  their  crimes,  to  be  granted  before  condemnation  and 
indeed  without  trial.  Good  advice  is  cheap  after  the 
event,  but  there  was  only  pne  logical  course  for  a  govern- 
ment to  pursue :  to  hunt  down  the  offenders  and  bring 
them  to  justice,  for  which  purpose  government  exists 
among  men.  If  it  do  not  that,  it  has  no  right  to  be  at 
all.  IS  till  they  negotiated  ;  the  Greek  ministry  permitted 
too  much  outside  control,  particularly  from  the  English 
embassy  as  the  party  most  deeply  concerned.  By  vigor- 
ous pursuit  the  prisoners  might  perhaps  have  been  killed 
at  once  by  the  brigands,  perhaps  not ;  at  any  rate  mur- 
ders of  foreigners  have  occurred  in  London  without  the 
fault  of  the  English  government  or  of  the  English  people. 
Let  us  not  then  abuse  the  Greeks  for  a  crime  which  was 
not  done  even  by  native  villians,  but  by  a  band  of  foreign 
miscreants  whom  the  authorities  had  tried  to  drive  away 
from  Greek  soil. 

But  the  unfortunate  fact  still  remains  that,  to  the  eye 
of  the  traveler,'  as  he  goes  up  this  valley  on  the  way  to 
Marathon,  in  the  present  year  of  grace,  the  form  of  Takos 
appears  with  startling  vividness  alongside  of  Miltiades. 
Nor  can  it  be  denied  that  they  may  be  taken,  to  a  certain 
extent,  as  the  representatives  of  their  respective  epochs'. 
The  one  is  clearly  the  product  of  Turkish  disorder  and 
oppression  —  bravery  driven  out  of  society  and  turned 
brigand ;  the  other  is  the  offspring  of  free  Athenian  in- 
stitutions, and  is  now  marching  out  to  their  defense,  at 


60  A   WALK  72V  HELLAS. 

the  head  of  heroic  companions,  whose  adamantine  tread 
around  these  hills  thunders  still  through  the  ages  down 
to  this  very  hour. 

Another  most  remarkable  fact  which  you  cannot  help 
thinking  of  on  this  spot,  is,  that  each  of  these  men  could, 
in  all  probability,  have  understood  the  other,  had  the  two 
spoken  together  here.  Indeed  of  all  facts  connected  with 
human  speech,  by  far  the  most  notable  one  is  this  im- 
mortality of  the  Greek  language.  Not  as  a  mummied 
tongue,  preserved  only  in  books  does  it  exist,  but  it  still 
pours  out  of  the  hearts  of  the  people  as  a  vital  fountain  of 
utterance.  At  the  same  time  it  preserves  more  than  any 
dead  tongue  ;  it  contains  more  of  the  treasures  of  written 
speech  than  any  other  language  ;  in  it  are  to  be  found  the 
great  works  of  heathen  culture  and  the  Christian  New 
Testament.  ^ 

As  one  turns  aroimd  the  mountain  he  will  stop  and  take 
the  last  view  of  the  Parthenon  now  about  to  pass  out  of 
sight.  It  has  been  a  faithful  happy  companion  of  his 
trip  ;  always  when  he  sits  down  to  rest  on  some  stone,  he 
will  seek  a  place  which  brings  that  temple  into  his  eye, 
for  it  never  fails  to  send  a  wave  of  delight  and  fresh 
energy  through  the  fatigued  members.  It  hands  a  drink 
from  a  divine  source  to  the  distant  thirsty  wayfarer,  who 
starts  again  on  his  path  with  new  hope.  Now  we  must 
bid  it  good-bye,  as  it  sends  to  us  its  graceful  benediction 
from  the  blue  distance  ;  we  shall  behold  it  no  more,  till  it 
suddenly  rise  up  before  us  again,  returning  from  our 
journey  over  the  Athenian  hills. 

Thus  I  move  along  on  the  track  of  the  Marathonian 
men,  sometimes  passing  by  a  small  orchard  of  olives, 
though  there  are  not  many  in  this  locality.  Of  all  the 
trees  in  Greece  or  Italy  the  olive  is  my  favorite ;  it  has  the 
prodigal  sparkle  of  youth  and  the  full  joyousness  of  the 
Greek  climate.  Then  I  crouch  through  the  underbrush 
by  a  narrow  winding  path ;  often  gliding  among  the 
bushes  the  Wallachian  shepherd  can  be  seen  in  attendance 
upon  his  flocks.  At  this  season  of  the  year  these  shepherds 
are  found  every-where  in  Greece.  They  are  a  nomadic 
people  whose  home  during  the  summer  is  in  the  mountains 


FEOM  PAENES   TO  NAP, AT  11  ON.  01 

of  Thessaly,  chiefly  in  the  Pindus  range.  In  winter  when 
their  native  heights  are  covered  with  snow,  they  pack  up 
their  families  and  drive  their  herds  southward  to  the 
mountains  of  Greece,  whose  sides  are  covered  with  abun- 
dance of  green  browsing. 

But  when  summer  comes,  the  hills  here  are  parched  by 
drouth ;  vegetation  is  burnt  up  in  the  fierce  glare  of  the 
Sungod  who,  the  old  Greeks  fabled,  smote  the  earth  with 
his  burning  arrows ;  the  arched  heavens  overhead  are 
heated  like  an  immense  bake-oven  raying  down  its  caloric 
upon  the  roasting  earth.  Then  the  Wallachiau  shepherd 
flees  to  the  North  where  his  own  mountainous  altitudes 
furnish  in  their  turn  verdure  and  a  cool  climate.  Thus  he 
passes  and  repasses  between  the  two  countries,  enjoying 
the  happy  season  of  each.  For  the  use  of  the  pasturage 
he  pays  to  the  Greek  government  a  certain  sum,  according 
to  the  number  of  his  flocks.  But  he  must  not  encroach 
upon  the  cultivated  land  —  the  field  of  grain  or  the  vine- 
yard ;  hence  his  presence  is  always  required  to  watch  his 
charge,  there  being  no  fences  in  Greece. 

His  black  herd  of  goats  and  white  herd  of  sheep  now 
spot  the  sides  of  Pentelicus,  as  you  look  up  ;  the  low  con- 
tinuous tinkle  of  their  bells  is  the  only  sound  that  reaches 
the  ear  on  the  sunny  air ;  absolute  quiet  you  find  here  into 
which  that  incessant  tinkle  chimes  with  a  sort  of  idyllic 
refrain.  No  factories,  no  railroads,  no  smoke,  not  a 
wagon,  not  even  a  house  —  nothing  but  sunshine  and 
pastoral  repose.  Now  and  then  a  shrill  whistle  may  be 
heard  from  the  shepherd  when  some  goat  passes  toward 
the  tilled  field ;  sometimes  he  will  throw  a  stone  at  it  for 
a  warning  to  keep  off ;  sometimes  he  utters  a  word,  call- 
ing it  by  name,  for  like  the  shepherds  of  Theocritus  he 
seems  to  have  a  name  for  each  member  of  his  flock. 

More  seldom  you  will  hear  the  notes  of  a  flute  or  pans- 
pipe  —  very  simple  music  indeed,  but  in  a  wonderful  har- 
mony with  the  life  here,  with  these  sunbeams  and  this 
tranquillity  of  the  hills. 

You  will  see  the  shepherd  holding  a  long  staff  in  his 
hand  with  a  peculiar  crook  at  the  end  of  it  —  from  time 
immemorial  the  symbol  of  his  calling  as  well  as  that  of 


62  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

the  Christian  Pastor.  But  with  him  it  is  not  a  symbol, 
he  does  not  know  what  a  symbol  means  probably,  but  it 
is  for  use.  You  will  be  highly  entertained  to  see  him  em- 
ploy it.  Some  refractory  ewe  must  be  caught  for  milking ; 
he  seeks  at  first  to  grasp  her  by  the  fleece,  once,  twice, 
thrice,  and  fails  ;  but  this  time,  as  she  tries  to  run  by  him 
in  sheep  fashion,  he  throws  that  hook  under  the  hind  leg 
and  she  is  fast  and  perhaps  capsized.  With  no  small 
dexterity  is  the  feat  accomplished ;  then  he  flings  her 
upon  his  shoulders  and  carries  her  off  with  head  dangling 
down  his  back. 

Wrapped  in  shaggy  capote  made  of  goat's  hair  and  im- 
pervious to  rain  he  stays  out  in  the  mountains  day  and 
night,  defying  all  changes  of  weather,  living  in  the  sim- 
plest harmony  with  his  surroundings,  the  veritable  child 
of  Nature.  Yet  he  is  not  without  a  tinge  of  education, 
often  he  speaks  and  writes  Greek.  The  blazing  camp-fires 
seen  on  the  distant  hills  in  the  chill  of  the  evening  are  his  ; 
there  he  gathers  his  herd  for  the  night,  drinks  his  whey 
and  eats  his  curds,  and  on  some  holy  festival  he  may  roast 
a  lamb  in  honor  of  the  Saint.  The  women  and  children 
he  leaves  at  the  Wallachian  village,  which  is  constructed 
mainly  of  poles  and  branches,  and  has  to  be  built  anew 
every  year.  Close  to  some  spring  or  run  he  dumps  his 
family  down  when  he  arrives  in  Greece  from  his  Northern 
home  ;  there  they  remain  or  move  about  from  place  to 
place  till  ready  for  departure  again  the  following  spring. 
But  the  shepherd  does  not  stay  in  the  village  with  his 
family,  but  drives  his  herds  into  the  hills,  where  he  dwells 
with  them  in  solitary  delight.  Some  twenty-five  hundred 
years  ago  an  ancient  bard  took  his  picture,  in  magnified 
outlines  yet  true  to  this  day,  and  called  him  Polyphemus. 

The  language  of  the  Wallachians  is  not  Greek,  but  a 
daughter  of  the  Latin,  and  cognate  with  other  Romanic 
tongues.  It  is  often  said  in  the  country  here  that  they 
speak  Italian,  but  this  is  a  mistake.  They  were  an  ancient 
Roman  colony  and  have  derived  their  speech  from  old 
Rome.  Originally  it  is  supposed  that  these  Wallachians 
came  from  the  regions  about  the  Danube  known  as  Wal- 
lachia,  or  ancient  Dacia  where  most  of  them  still  dwell ; 


FROM  PARNES   TO  MARATHON.  63 

but  in  the  great  migration  and  displacement  of  nations 
during  the  Middle  Ages,  a  fragment  of  this  people  was 
stranded  on  the  mountains  of  Thessaly,  where  they  have 
remained  ever  since  with  their  primitive  nomadic  habits. 
They  are  not  by  any  means  a  ferocious  race,  though  some 
of  them  become  brigands,  as  Takos. 

They  constitute  one  of  the  three  distinct  peoples  which 
are  found  at  present  in  Greece.  This  fact  you  should 
carefully  remember :  not  a  homogeneous  population  but 
three  different  peoples  are  now  living  on  Hellenic  soil. 
These  are  the  Greeks,  Wallachians  and  Albanians  —  each 
having  distinct  customs,  language  and  character. 

Almost  in  a  straight  line  from  Parnes  to  Marathon  lies 
Stamata,  a  small  village  which  I  now  approach.  Just 
outside  of  it  is  a  little  Byzantine  church  which  I  stop  to 
look  at  for  a  few  moments  ;  the  structure  is  of  a  pristine 
rudeness,  yet  the  yard  shows  the  hand  of  care ;  it  is  not 
devoid  of  interest,  for  the  humblest  religious  edifice  has 
always  a  significant  legend  written  on  its  stones.  A  dog 
sees  me  and  giving  a  yelp  starts  towards  me  down  the 
little  hill  from  the  village  ;  this  yelp  is  the  signal  for  every 
dog  in  the  neighborhood ;  here  they  come,  a  dozen  or 
more,  with  hair  crawling  in  bristly  folds  on  their  necks, 
snapping  their  teeth,  rushing  up  behind  and  in  front,  with 
unearthly  barking  and  gnarliiig.  I  at  once  ceased  my 
contemplation  of  Byzantine  architecture,  and  began  shout- 
ing at  the  fiends.  I  flourished  my  staff,  retreated  against 
the  fence  of  the  church-yard,  and  succeeded  in  keeping 
them  at  bay  till  1  was  relieved  from  my  purgatorial  posi- 
tion by  two  hunters  who  were  coming  along,  and  by  a 
youth  from  the  village  who  pelted  the  dogs  off  with  stones. 

This  was  the  second  unpleasant  experience  with  dogs  ; 
for  the  tourist  afoot  they  are  clearly  a  problem.  But  I 
found  out,  after  some  trials  of  him,  that,  though  the 
Greek  dog  be  a  great  blusterer,  he  is  really  a  coward. 
His  chief  terror  is  a  stone,  which  if  he  sees  in  the  hands 
of  the  person  whom  he  assails,  he  will  keep  at  a  safe  dis- 
tance and  in  lively  motion.  Often  he  remains  pevfectly 
quiet  till  you  pass,  then  he  treacherously  slips  up  behind 
you  and  tries  to  snap  a  piece  of  flesh  out  of  your  calves. 


64  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

Or,  he  will  come  rushing  upon  you  with  hair  erect,  look- 
ing like  a  lion ;  but  if  you  reach  for  a  stone,  he  will  bring 
himself  to  a  stand  at  once,  or  quickly  turn  back.  Often 
he  will  ferociously  run  after  the  rock  which  you  throw, 
and  bite  it,  as  if  that  hurt  you.  He  is  hard  to  hit,  being 
an  excellent  dodger  and  in  continual  practice.  A  little 
bit  of  malice  one  has  a  right  to  feel  against  him ;  so,  after 
I  had  learned  his  character,  I  took  delight  in  overreach- 
ing him  in  this  way :  when  I  stooped  for  a  stone,  I  would 
pick  up  two  or  three,  fling  one  at  him  which  he  would  run 
after,  then  when  his  attention  was  turned  away  from  me, 
I  would  pepper  him  to  the  extent  of  my  ability  in  pro- 
jectiles. If  you  are  as  much  interested  in  this  subject  as 
I  am,  you  will  be  glad  to  learn  that  I  often  succeeded  in 
sending  him  over  the  fields,  howling,  sometimes  limping. 
Once  or  twice  I  came  near  getting  into  trouble  on  account 
of  the  excellence  of  my  aim.  Every  shepherd  and  every 
peasant  has  two  or  three  such  dogs,  and  not  always  the 
owners  take  the  trouble  of  calling  them  back  when  they 
rush  out  at  the  stranger. 

The  Greek  dog  has  usually  a  wolfish  appearance,  as  if 
but  a  step  or  two  removed  from  a  wild  animal ;  a  large 
black  dog,  somewhat  like  a  mastiff,  is  also  seen ;  the 
breed,  huwever,  is  mixed  with  many  varieties.  But  he  is 
cowardly,  blustering,  treacherous  —  even  for  a  dog;  I 
confess  that  I  have  a  prejudice  against  him  on  account 
of  this  affair  at  Stamata.  His  strictly  vegetable  diet  may 
have  something  to  do  in  modifying  his  courage.  So  much 
for  dogs,  which  in  addition  to  other  things  were  repre- 
sented at  Athens  as  one  of  the  terrors  of  a  tour  afoot  in 
Greece.  The  pedestrian  can  now  manage  them,  and  may 
find  some  satisfaction  in  punishing  their  impudent  bluster, 
while  defending  himself. 

One  of  the  hunters  invites  me  to  go  with  him  to  his 
house  in  the  village  —  an  invitation  which  I  gladly  ac- 
cept, passing  through  many  a  snarl  of  the  large  canine 
colony,  which  seemed  in  no  hospitable  mood  toward  me. 
It  is  a  poor  hamlet ;  like  all  Albanian  villages  —  for  the 
people  here  are  Albanians  —  it  is  built  on  a  very  wide 
street  or  public  place,  fronting  which  the  huts  are  erected 


FROM  PAENES   TO  MAIiATHON.  65 

in  two  rows,  one  on  each  side.  In  this  way  a  sort  of  in- 
closure  is  formed  which  may  be  used  for  the  herds  of  the 
village  and  will  probably  contain  them  all.  Here  they 
could  be  shut  up  in  case  of  an  emergency  and  protected. 
Thus  the  form  of  the  village  hints  to  the  traveler  of  an- 
cient unsettled  times,  when  the  people  had  to  be  ready  to 
defend  themselves  and  their  own  against  the  sudden  foray 
of  the  robber ;  still  the  habit  of  building  remains,  though 
the  danger  be  past.  What  a  different  history  is  revealed 
in  the  shape  of  the  typical  American  town ! 

Guided  by  my  friendly  host,  I  enter  his  hovel ;  in  one 
corner  is  a  fire  made  of  brushwood ;  there  is  a  small  chim- 
ney supplemented  by  a  hole  in  the  roof,  but  both  chimney 
and  hole  do  not  succeed  in  enticing  the  smoke  to  the  out- 
side, for  the  room  is  now  full  of  it.  I  soon  get  used 
to  it,  however,  though  it  makes  me  cough  and  even 
weep  a  little  at  first.  There  is  no  window  with  glass 
panes,  but  a  simple  hole  in  the  wall  with  a  sliding  board  ; 
this  board  shoved  aside  admits  fresh  air  and  some  light. 
Still  with  this  opening  it  is  rather  dark  in  the  room  and  I 
can  hardly  see,  but  the  pupils  of  the  eyes  soon  expand 
and  every  thing  becomes  visible,  nay,  luminous.  Happy 
Nature  is  always  ready  to  adjust  herself  harmoniously  to 
her  surroundings.  There  is  no  floor  but  the  earth,  no 
ceiling  but  the  naked  tiles  above.  This  room  may  be 
called  the  parlor  of  the  house,  to  enter  which  one  has  to 
pass  through  an  ad  joining  room  which  is  the  stable  ;  there 
a  little  donkey  now  stands  munching  his  fodder ;  he  will 
turn  around  his  big  head  and  look  at  you  as  you  enter, 
pricking  up  his  long  ears  at  the  strange  appearance  ;  near 
him  his  little  gear  hangs  on  a  peg. 

I  am  offered  the  chair  of  honor,  namely  a  three-legged 
stool  by  the  fire,  while  my  host  squats  down  on  a  mat. 
Recinato  is  first  brought,  with  which  we  drink  to  each 
other 'swell-being;  then  black  bread  and  olives  are  placed 
before  me,  and  he  insists  upon  my  eating  —  which  I  pro- 
ceed to  do  without  delay,  as  it  is  about  noon  and  walking 
in  the  Greek  morning  air  whets  to  a  razor's  keenness  the 
appetite.  Also  he  takes  the  trouble  of  bringing  two  eggs 
from  a  neighbor's  and  iu  honor  of  his  guest  roasts  them  in 


66  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

the  hot  ashes.  So  we  banquet  there  before  the  fire,  cer- 
tainly to  my  great  satisfaction.  Citizens  having  heard  of 
the  new  arrival,  call  one,  two,  three  in  succession ;  they 
first  come  to  that  hole  in  the  wall,  shove  the  board  aside, 
thrust  in  their  kerchiefed  heads,  and  give  a  friendly 
salute ;  then  they  go  around,  and  enter  by  the  door,  and 
when  seated  on  the  mat  drink  a  bumper  of  wine  to  the 
health  of  a  stranger,  who  is  not  slow  to  respond  to  such 
kindness. 

In  the  conversation  many  a  little  hint  of  their  ways  of 
thinking  and  of  their  condition  is  brought  to  light ;  there 
is  no  school  in  the  place ;  no  priest  lives  here,  one  comes 
from  another  village  to  hold  service  ;  nobody  can  either 
read  or  write,  nor  does  there  seem  much  ambition  to 
change  this  state  of  things.  Of  the  other  sex  only  one  old 
woman  and  two  little  girls  show  themselves.  A  picture  of 
the  Virgin  hangs  on  the  wall,  before  which  a  small  oil 
lamp  is  kept  burning.  This  sign  of  devotion  greets  the 
traveler  pleasantly ;  here,  too,  in  this  humble  cabin  there 
is  a  recognition  of  something  higher  than  self,  a  belief  in 
punishment  for  the  wicked  deed  and  in  reward  for  the 
good  deed.  That  is  assuredly  a  protection ;  yes,  the  Vir- 
gin holds  her  shielding  hand  over  thee  too,  unbeliever, 
who  art  wandering  alone  through  Stamata.  Think  of  it. 

I  have  already  told  you  that  the  inhabitants  of  the  vil- 
lage are  Albanians,  and  that  this  name  was  applied  to  one 
of  the  three  different  peoples  which  are  at  present  scat- 
tered over  Greece.  They  came  from  the  North,  doubtless 
from  ancient  Illyria,  pressed  hither  partly  by  migrations 
of  the  great  tribes  during  the  medieval  troubles,  and 
partly  allured  by  the  lands  of  Greece,  which  must  have 
been  largely  depopulated  at  that  period.  Their  language 
is  usually  said  to  belong  to  the  Slavonic  group,  and  them- 
selves to  be  Slavs,  but  the  point  is  stoutly  disputed ;  re- 
cently they  have  been  held  to  be  even  of  Celtic  stock. 
I  have  no  judgment  upon  this  matter;  but  1  confess  I 
would  like  to  think  with  some  learned  men  that  they  are 
ancient  Pelasgic  remnants. 

The  Albanian  is  tall,  slim  and  wiry,  rather  taciturn  and 
dull,  and  I  thought  a  little  inclined  to  suspicion,  often 


FROM  PARNES  TO  MARATHON.        67 

looking  slyly  out  of  the  corner  of  his  blinking  eye  at  the 
stranger.  He  is  the  sole  agriculturist  in  these  parts,  and 
stands  in  contrast  to  the  Wallachian  who  is  the  shepherd, 
and  to  the  Greek  who  is  mainly  a  tradesman.  Though 
he  be  the  ploughman,  the  Albanian  loves  the  gun  far  more 
than  the  plough ;  he  usually  goes  armed,  carrying  a  long 
knife  in  a  belt  around  the  waist  and  sometimes  a  pistol. 
He  makes  an  excellent  soldier ;  the  bravest  champions 
of  Greek  independence  were  the  Albanians  of  the  islands  ; 
the  best  soldiers  of  the  Turkish  empire  are  to-day  the 
Albanians  of  Albania  proper  or  ancient  Epirus.  There 
is  not  a  person  of  Greek  blood  in  this  village ;  and  the 
same  statement  is  true  of  the  entire  rural  population  of 
Attica  and  Boeotia,  with  a  few  scattered  exceptions.  The 
women  are  not  handsome,  often  sun-burnt  and  wrinkled, 
often  stooped  with  hard  outdoor  labor.  Indeed  one  is 
inclined  to  despair  of  ever  seeing  Helen  as  he  goes 
through  these  country  towns.  But  we  shall  continue  our 
quest ;  this  air  and  sky  make  amends  for  much  that  is 
wanting ;  the  Greek  mood  never  wanes.  The  image  is 
still  hovering  before  us  and  beckons ;  we  still  have  faith 
that  we  may  yet  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  reality  somewhere 
in  our  travels. 

So  I  rose  to  go ;  two  hours  more  to  Marathon  it  is  said. 
My  hospitable  friend  conducted  me  out  of  the  village  — 
very  necessary  guidance  through  the  double  line  of  snarl- 
ing dogs.  I  pressed  into  his  hand  a  few  decaria  —  a  cop- 
per coin  worth  about  two  cents  —  enough  to  pay  him,  yet 
not  enough  to  spoil  him  for  the  next  pedestrian.  He 
refused  at  first,  but  finally  took  them  upon  my  urging 
him ;  for  it  should  be  a  principle  with  the  tourist  afoot 
to  pay  the  people  a  reasonable  price  for  all  that  he  re- 
ceives, under  tne  just  supposition  that  he  is  quite  as  able 
to  pay  as  they  are  to  give.  I  do  not  pretend,  however, 
that  my  liberality  was  extravagant ;  I  never  forgot  that 
some  of  you  might  be  my  successors.  My  host  put  me 
into  the  road  to  Marathon  and  added  many  directions 
which  I  imperfectly  understood,  and  should  have  forgot- 
ten, had  I  understood  them.  A  friendly  farewell  and  we 
separate.  Good  luck!  I  am  again  on  my  way  with 


68  A    WALK  J.V  BELLAS. 

lively  hopes  and  joyous  images  —  best  of  company  here 
in  Greece. 

But  soon  the  road  forked  —  which  branch  to  take  I 
could  not  tell ;  a  forking  road  is  a  great  perplexity  to  the 
traveler  in  a  country  without  sign-boards.  He  takes  one 
way  at  random,  then  concludes  that  he  is  wrong,  goes 
back  and  takes  the  other,  only  to  find  at  last  that  he  was 
right  the  first  time.  Such  was  my  fate  now.  I  took  one 
of  the  branches,  but  soon  imagined  that  I  had  made  a 
mistake,  and  tried  to  cross  over  the  intervening  field  to 
the  first  branch,  but  this  had  dwindled  to  a  small  path 
which  I  followed  till  it  lost  itself  in  still  smaller  paths 
running  in  every  direction -through  the  mountains. 

Where  am  I  now  ?  Such  is  the  question  which  I  find 
myself  asking  with  some  bewilderment.  Yonder  is  Parnes 
and  yonder  is  Pentelicus  running  in  ranges  nearly  at 
right  angles  to  each  other ;  with  their  aid  I  can  keep  the 
direction ;  so  I  start  straight  across  the  hills  and  ravines 
toward  Marathon.  Not  a  human  habitation  can  be  seen, 
not  a  shepherd,  not  a  flock  —  nought  is  there  but  blank 
solitude.  A  thick  growth  of  underbrush  covers  the 
ground  ;  one  has  to  push  through  it  by  main  strength, 
being  caught  sometimes  and  held  fast  by  the  secret  arms 
of  a  wood-nymph  reaching  out  of  her  tree.  Underfoot 
the  crystalline  grain  of  marble  can  be  noticed  in  the  rock 
which  is  nicked ;  minerals  now  and  then  can  be  picked  up. 
From  some  dense  copse  a  woodcock  will  rise  at  times 
with  sudden  whirr,  which  startles  the  solitary  wanderer. 
Thus  I  go  forward,  down  valleys,  across  gulleys,  up  the 
steep  hill-sides,  following  a  path  where  it  can  be  followed, 
with  the  belief  that  it  must  lead  somewhither.  Signs  of 
a  vacated  camping  spot  appear,  coal  pits  are  burning  off 
yonder,  but  I  see  nobody.  So  for  three  hours  I  wander 
up  and  down  through  the  brambly  and  uneven  solitudes ; 
it  is  not  easy  traveling,  I  begin  to  grow  weary,  the  sun 
too  is  getting  dim  in  afternoon  decline.  What  if  I  should 
have  to  remain  out  all  night  in  the  mountains? 

Still,  courage!  Parnes  and  Pentelicus,  with  a  glance  at 
the  map,  show  you  that  you  are  right,  going  directly  to 
Marathon;  then  forward,  without  delay!  Miltiades  met 


FROM  PARNES  TO  MARATHON.  69 

and.  overcame  a  much  greater  obstacle  not  far  from  here  ; 
you  too  must  meet  and  overcome  a  little  one.  Consider 
what  lies  just  before  you  —  it  is  Marathon !  Thus  I  buoy 
myself  up,  keeping  my  mood  persistently  Greek.  As  I 
push  through  a  clump  of  bushes,  suddenly  I  stand  upon 
the  edge  of  an  enormous  chasm ;  the  precipice  descends 
hundreds  of  feet  straight  down ;  cascades  can  be  heard 
below  in  the  abyss,  leaping  and  dashing,  but  can  not  be 
seen  from  the  summit.  The  scenery  is  wild  in  the  ex- 
treme ;  colossal  boulders  have  been  broken  off  from 
mountain  tops  and  flung  half  way  down  in  gigantic  con- 
fusion ;  some  rock  battle  it  was  of  the  old  Titans.  Three 
immense  gorges  come  together  into  one  gorge  still  more 
immense  —  three  throats  of  the  monster  at  the  entrance 
to  Hades,  an  adamantine  triple-necked.  Cerberus,  guard  of 
Hell.  After  shuddering  at  the  view  for  a  moment,  this 
thought  breaks  up  through  the  terror :  shall  I  now  have  to 
turn  back  ?  for  there  is  no  getting  down  this  place ;  or  per- 
chance remain  out  all  night  in  the  mountains?  I  skirt 
along  the  edge  of  the  abyss  carefully,  fearing  lest  another 
precipice  may  cut  me  off  in  this  new  direction  also. 

But  as  I  turn  around  a  little  thicket  and  emerge  on  the 
other  side,  behold!  The  whole  valley,  green  with  alter- 
nate patches  of  shrubs  and  grain-fields,  gracefully  narrow 
and  curving,  stretches  out  before  me.  Through  it  a  sil- 
very ribbon  of  water  is  winding  brightly  along  —  it  is  the 
river  Marathon.  Toward  the  further  end  of  the  vale  is  a 
pleasant  village  lying  quietly  between  the  hills  in  sunny 
repose  —  it  is  the  village  Marathon.  In  the  distance 
through  the  opening  between  two  mountains,  following 
with  the  eye  the  course  of  the  stream  1  can  behold  a  plain 
spreading  out  Jike  a  fan,  and  stretching  along  the  blue 
sparkling  rim  of  the  sea  —  it  is  the  plain  of  Marathon. 
The  whole  landscape  sweeps  into  the  vision  at  once  from 
the  high  station  ;  something  struggles  within  the  beholder, 
wings  can  be  felt  growing  out  of  the  sides  —  let  us  fly 
down  into  the  vale  without  delay  from  this  height. 

Accordingly  I  start,  not  with  pinions  however,  for  I 
must  have  walked,  inasmuch  as  I  stepped  on  a  long  slant- 
ing slab  of  stone,  all  the  while  casting  my  eyes  below  into 


70  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

the  valley,  and  not  looking  where  I  should  place  my  feet, 
which  I  imagined  I  had  dispensed  with.  1  slipped, 
gradually  falling  my  whole  length  along  that  slab,  not 
falling  hard  enough  to  hurt  me,  but,  as  it  were,  being  laid 
down  tenderly  by  some  God  who  knew  better  what  I 
wanted  than  I  did  myself.  For  I  now  experienced  what 
a  luxury  it  was  to  lie  there  after  such  a  fatiguing  walk 
and  to  look  over  that  landscape.  All  anxiety  about  hav- 
ing to  sleep  out  in  the  mountains  has  passed  away ;  just 
below  I  notice  a  path  which  leads  to  the  main  road  run- 
ning along  the  stream  to  the  village.  Thus  I  lie  on  the 
rough  slab  in  full  enjoyment  of  the  scene  —  then  I  take 
out  my  note-book  and  write  pretty  much  what  you  have 
just  heard.  But  what  note-book  can  carry  this  view 
across  the  ocean,  and  show  it  to  friends  —  or  transfer  the 
atmosphere  of  memory  and  emotion  which  envelops  it! 
Still  think  of  me,  my  hearers,  lying  there  on  a  stone  and 
looking  over  Marathon,  while  I  jot  down  a  note  for  you 
here.  What  next  is  in  store  for  us  anyhow  ? 

But  the  Sun  refused  to  stand  in  the  Heavens  and  gaze 
along  with  me,  to  gaze  even  upon  Marathon  ;  he  is  sight- 
ing me  now  with  waning  eye  just  across  yonder  peak,  in 
five  minutes  he  will  drop  behind  it.  Get  up  then,  and  be 
off  for  the  final  stretch,  though  you  be  a  little  stiff  from 
much  racing  to-day.  I  pass  down  the  mountain,  easily, 
by  the  path  to  the  road,  and  come  to  the  pleasant  Mara- 
thoniau  stream,  not  large,  but  now  leaping  along  its  white 
marble  bed  with  many  a  joyous  gusli  and  babble.  The 
roads  run  just  at  the  side  of  it  so  that  it  keeps  me  com- 
pany ;  in  one  spot  the  smooth  basin  filled  with  a  dancing 
transparent  flow  of  ripples  is  too  tempting  ;  I  stoop  down, 
wash  hands  and  face,  then  pull  off  shoes  and  stockings, 
and  wade  into  the  cool  pellucid  waters  —  I,  the  undigni- 
fied man,  right  along  the  public  road.  But  it  was 
delicious  refreshment  to  the  foot-sore  traveler ;  the  cool 
stream  healed  the  feverish  members  bruised  by  the  long 
stony  journey —  and  I  was  ready  again  for  the  march  and 
the  battle. 

Just  as  I  was  prepared  to  start  once  more,  a  new  ap- 
pearance I  notice  coming  down  the  road ;  it  is  the  travel- 


FEOM  PARNE8   TO   MARATHON.  71 

ing  merchant  with  his  entire  store  of  goods  laden  on  the 
back  of  a  little  donkey.  His  salute  is  friendly,  his 
manner  is  quick  and  winning ;  we  go  along  together  to- 
ward the  village  talking  of  many  things.  He  tells  me 
that  he  is  from  Oropus,  a  town  on  the  Attic  border, 
famous  in  antiquity,  that  his  name  is  Aristides,  that  he  is 
going  to  Marathon  and  will  show  me  a  place  to  stay  dur- 
ing the  night.  There  is  something  new  and  peculiar 
about  this  man  the  like  of  which  I  have  not  yet  seen  in 
these  rural  portions  of  Greece.  He  walks  with  a  quick 
alert  step,  he  has  a  shrewdness  and  brightness  of  intel- 
lect, a  readiness  and  information  which  are  remarkable  in 
comparison  to  the  ordinary  intellectual  gifts  found  in  the 
country ;  his  features  and  his  physical  bearing,  his  keen 
dark  eye  and  nervous  twitch  distinguish  him  in  the  most 
striking  manner  from  the  stolid  Albanian  peasant.  He  is 
a  Greek  of  pure  blood,  he  tells  me  —  manifestly  we  have 
met  with  a  new  and  distinctive  type. 

I  enter  the  village  of  Marathon  with  Aristides,  who 
brings  me  to  the  chief  wineshop,  where  lodgings  are  to  be 
had  as  well  as  refreshing  beverage.  First  a  thimble  full 
of  mastic,  a  somewhat  strong  alcoholic  drink,  with  my 
merchant,  who  then  leaves  me  and  goes  to  his  business. 
A  number  of  people  are  in  the  wineshop,  they  are  the 
Albanian  residents  of  the  village  ;  all  look  curiously  at  the 
new  arrival.  The  merchant  soon  passed  around  the 
word  that  I  was  from  America  —  a  fact  which  I  had  im- 
parted to  him  on  the  way.  But  of  America  they  had  very 
little  notion.  The  strangest  sort  of  curiosity  peeped  out 
of  their  rather  small  eyes ;  the  news  spread  rapidly 
through  the  town  that  a  live  American  had  arrived ;  what 
that  was,  they  all  hastened  to  see.  So  they  continued  to 
pour  in  by  twos  and  threes,  till  the  spacious  wineshop 
was  nearly  full.  Not  a  word  they  said,  but  walked  along 
in  front  of  the  table  where  I  sat,  and  stared  at  me  ;  they 
kept  their  kerchiefed  heads  drawn  down  in  their  shaggy 
capotes,  being  dressed  in  tight  breeches  like  close-fitting 
drawers,  with  feet  thrust  into  low  shoes  which  run  out  to 
a  point  at  the  toes  and  curl  over.  Thus  they  move  be- 
fore me  in  continuous  procession  ;  when  they  had  taken  a 


72  ,1    WALK  J.V  HELLAS. 

close  survey  of  me,  they  would  sit  down  on  a  bench,  roll 
a  cigarette  in  paper,  strike  fire  from  a  flint,  and  begin  to 
smoke.  A  taciturn,  curious  but  not  unfriendly  crowd  — 
1  called  for  recinato. 

Presently  a  man  clad  in  European  garments  appeared 
among  them,  and  in  courteous  manner  addressed  me,  talk- 
ing good  Greek  but  very  bad  French ;  it  was  the  village 
school-master  whom  the  people  familiarly  called  Didaskali. 
I  hailed  him  joyfully  as  a  fellow-craftsman  in  a  foreign 
land,  and  lost  no  time  in  announcing  to  him  that  I  too  was 
a  school-master  in  my  country.  Professional  sympathy 
at  once  opened  all  the  sluices  of  his  heart,  we  were  friends 
on  the  spot.  He  was  not  an  Albanian,  but  a  Greek  born 
in  the  Turkish  provinces ;  I  do  not  think  he  was  as  bright 
as  my  merchant  Aristides,  though  he  was  probably  better 
educated.  I  took  a  stroll  with  him  around  the  town  ;  he 
sought  to  show  me  every  possible  kindness,  with  the 
single  exception  of  his  persistency  in  talking  French.  One 
neat  little  cottage  I  noticed ;  it  was  the  residence  of  the 
Dikastes  or  village  judge ;  but  the  most  of  the  houses 
were  low  hovels,  with  glassless  windows,  often  floorless. 
Women  were  shy,  hiding  forehead  and  chin  in  wrappage 
at  the  approach  of  a  stranger,  who  perhaps  was  too  eager 
in  trying  to  peer  into  their  faces  —  as  if  in  search  of  some 
visage  lost  long  ago  in  this  valley.  Still  human  nature  is 
here,  too,  in  Marathon,  for  I  caught  a  }"oung  girl  giving 
a  sly  peep  through  the  window  after  we  had  passed,  which 
she  had  pretended  to  close  when  she  saw  the  stranger  ap- 
proaching. 

But  it  is  growing  dark  ;  I  have  done  a  pretty  good  day's 
work  ;  I  must  put  off  the  rest  of  the  sight-seeing  till  to- 
morrow. Only  half  a  mile  below  is  the  Marathonian 
plain,  which  one  can  see  from  the  village,  but  it  must  now 
be  turned  over  to  darkness.  At  my  request  the  Didaskali 
goes  back  with  me  to  the  wineshop,  when  he  excuses 
himself,  promising  soon  to  return.  There  I  had  a  supper 
which  was  eminently  satisfactory  after  a  day's  walk:  five 
eggs  fried  in  goat's  butter,  large  quantities  of  black  bread, 
and  abundance  of  recinato  at  one  cent  a  glass  —  good- 
sized  glasses  at  that. 


FROM  PARNES  TO  MARATHON.        73 

While  I  sat  there  eating,  the  people  began  to  assemble 
again.  The  Papas,  the  village  priest  came  and  listened, 
the  untrowsered  man,  with  dark  habit  falling  down  to  his 
heels  like  a  woman's  dress,  and  with  long  raven  hair  rolled 
up  in  a  knot  on  the  back  of  his  head,  upon  which  knot  sat 
his  high  stiff  ecclesiastical  cap ;  the  Dikastes  or  village 
judge  came,  an  educated  man,  who  had  studied  at  the 
University  of  Athens,  and  who  dressed  in  European 
fashion,  possessing  in  noticeable  contrast  to  the  rest  of 
the  Marathonians,  the  latest  style  of  Parisian  hat;  a  lame 
shop-keeper  came,  a  Greek  of  the  town,  bright,  full  of 
mockery,  flattering  me  with  high  titles  in  order  to  get  me 
to  hire  his  mules  for  my  journey,  as  I  had  good  reason 
to  suspect ;  finally  the  school-master  and  the  traveling 
merchant  appeared  again,  both  in  excellent  humor  and 
expecting  a  merry  evening.  There  was  no  doctor  present, 
I  asked  for  him ;  they  told  me  that  there  was  none  in  the 
valley,  though  it  is  scourged  with  malarial  fever  in  sum- 
mer ;  one  man  in  particular  complained  of  the  health  of  the 
place.  All  the  representative  citizens  of  Marathon  were 
before  me,  looking  at  me  eating  in  the  wineshop  on  a 
wooden  table.  Some  one  asked  me  about  my  native 
language.  "  This  is  the  language  that  I  understand 
best,"  said  I,  raising  a  mouthful  of  egg  and  bread  to  my 
lips;  "  you  seem  to  understand  it  too."  This  jest,  for 
whose  merit  I  do  not  make  any  high  claims,  caused  all 
the  Albanians  to  laugh  and  set  the  whole  wineshop  in  a 
festive  mood.  It  is  manifest  that  this  audience  is  not 
very  difficult  to  please. 

Finally  my  long  respast  was  finished  —  long  both  on 
account  of  the  work  done  and  on  account  of  the  continued 
interruptions  caused  by  question  and  answer.  The  people 
still  held  out  —  there  they  were  before  me,  more  curious 
than  ever,  now  with  a  laughing  look  on  account  of  that 
one  sterile  jest,  laughing  out  of  the  corner  of  the  eye,  and 
with  "head  already  somewhat  drawn  out  of  the  shaggy 
capote  from  expectation.  What  next?  I  was  on  the  soil 
of  illustrious  Marathon,  expectant  gazes  were  centered 
upon  me  ;  what  had  I,  as  a  true  American,  to  do  for  the 
honor  of  my  country  ?  My  duty  was  clear  from  the  start, 


74  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

I  must  make  a  speech.  I  would  have  been  unfaithful  to 
my  nationality,  had  I  not  done  so  at  Marathon.  Accord- 
ingly I  shoved  the  table  aside,  pulled  out  my  bench,  and 
in  the  full  happiness  of  hunger  and  thirst  satisfied  —  per- 
haps too  a  little  aglow  with  the  golden  recinato  —  I  began 
to  address  them  as  follows  :  — 

Andres  Marathonioi  —  Ye  men  of  Marathon  —  at  this 
point  I  confess  I  had  to  laugh  myself,  looking  into  that 
solid  Albanian  stare  of  fifty  faces,  for  the  echo  of  the 
tremendous  oath  of  Demosthenes  in  which  he  swears  by 
the  heroes  of  Marathon,  rung  through  my  ears  and  made 
the  situation  appallingly  ludicrous.  Still,  in  spite  of  my 
laugh,  you  must  know  that  I  was  in  deep  earnest  and  full 
of  my  theme ;  moreover,  there  were  at  least  four  persons 
before  me  who  could  understand  both  my  Greek  and  my 
allusions.  As  to  my  Greek,  I  affirm  that  Demosthenes 
himself  would  have  understood  it,  had  he  been  there  — 
though  he  might  have  criticised  the  style  and  pronuncia- 
tion. But  I  resumed : 

Ye  men  of  Marathon,  I  never  was  gladder  in  my  life 
than  I  am  to  be  with  you  to-night.  I  crossed  over  the 
mountains  on  foot  from  Stamata ;  every  step  that  I  took 
was  lighter  with  thinking  of  Marathon.  When  from 
yonder  summit,  I  first  caught  a  glimpse  of  your  village  and 
valley  and  gave  a  distant  peep  into  the  plain  beyond  to 
the  sea,  I  had  to  shed  tears  of  joy.  Your  name  is  indeed 
the  greatest,  the  most  inspiring  in  all  history.  In  every 
age  it  has  been  the  mighty  rallying  cry  of  freedom ; 
nations  oppressed,  on  hearing  it,  have  taken  hope  and 
risen,  smiting  to  earth  their  tyrants.  It  has  been  the 
symbol  of  courage  to  the  few  and  weak  against  the  many 
and  strong ;  the  very  utterance  of  the  name  inspires  what 
is  highest  and  noblest  in  the  human  breast  —  courage, 
devotion,  liberty,  nationality.  Under  a  banner  inscribed 
with  that  word  Marathon,  our  Western  civilization  has 
heroically  marched  and  fought  its  battle ;  here  was  its 
first  outpost,  here  its  first  and  greatest  triumph  —  and  the 
shout  of  that  triumph  still  re-echoes  and  will  go  on  re- 
echoing forever  through  history.  But  Marathon  is  not 
merely  here ;  it  has  traveled  around  the  world  along  with 


FROM  PARNES  TO  MARATHON.        75 

* 

man's  freedom  and  enlightenment.  Among  all  civilized 
peoples  the  name  is  known  and  cherished ;  it  is  familiar 
as  a  household  word,  nay,  it  is  a  household  prayer.  In 
the  remote  districts  of  America  I  have  often  heard  it 
uttered  —  and  uttered  with  deepest  admiration  and 
gratitude.  There,  in  my  land,  thousands  of  miles  from 
here,  I  first  learned  the  name  of  Marathon  in  a  log 
school-house  by  the  side  of  the  primitive  forest ;  it 
fell  from  the  lips  of  a  youth  who  was  passionately 
speaking  of  his  country.  It  had  in  its  very  sound 
I  can  still  recollect,  some  spell,  some  strange  fascination, 
for  it  seemed  to  call  up,  like  an  army  of  spirits,  the  great 
heroes  of  the  past  along  with  the  most  intense  feelings  of 
the  soul.  There  you  can  hear  it  among  the  people  in 
their  little  debates  ;  also  you  can  hear  it  from  great  orators 
in  senate-halls.  Marathon,  I  repeat,  is  the  mightiest, 
most  magical  name  in  history,  by  which  whole  nations 
swear  when  they  march  out  in  defense  of  their  Gods, 
their  families  and  their  freedom.  By  it  too  they  compare 
their  present  with  their  past  and  ever  struggle  upwards  to 
fulfill  what  lies  prophetically  in  their  great  example.  Now 
I  am  in  the  very  place  ;  I  can  hardly  persuade  myself  that 
it  is  not  a  dream,  and  that  you  are  not  shadows  flitting  here 
before  me.  In  that  log  school-house  I  did  not  even  dare 
dream  of  this  moment ;  but  it  has  arrived.  I  have  already 
had  to-day  a  glimpse  where  the  old  battle-field  reposes  in  the 
hazy  distance  ;  to-morrow  I  shall  visit  it,  run  over  it,  spend 
the  whole  day  upon  it,  looking  and  thinking  ;  for  I  desire 
to  stamp  its  features  and  its  spirit  into  my  very  brain  that 
I  may  carry  Marathon  across  the  ocean  to  my  land  and 
show  it  to  others  who  may  not  be  able  to  come  here  and 
see  it  for  themselves.  Nor  shall  I  refrain  from  confessing 
to  you  a  secret  within  me :  I  can  not  help  thinking  that  I 
have  been  here  before  ;  every  thing  looks  familiar  to  me  ; 
I  beheld  yon  summit  long  ago,  the  summit  of  old  Kotroni ; 
I  have  marched  down  the  Marathonian  stream  as  I  marched 
to-day ;  I  seem  to  be  doing  over  again  the  same  things 
that  I  have  done  here  before ;  I  made  a  speech  on  this 
spot  ages  ago  in  Greek  —  a  much  better  one,  I  think, 
than  I  am  now  making.  And  further  let  me  tell  you 


76  A    WALK  .LV  HELLAS. 

what  I  believe  —  I  believe  that  I  too  fought  along  at  Mar- 
athon, that  I  was  one  of  those  ten  thousand  Athenian 
soldiers  that  rushed  down  yonder  hill-side  and  drave  the 
Oriental  man  into  the  sea.  I  can  now  behold  n^self  off 
there  charging  down  a  meadow  toward  a  swamp,  amid 
the  rattle  of  arms  and  the  hymn  of  battle,  with  shield 
firmly  grasped  and  with  spear  fiercely  out-thrust,  on  the 
point  of  which,  spitted  through  and  through,  I  can  feel  a 
quivering  Persian." 

At  this  strange  notion  and  still  more  at  the  accompany- 
ing gesture  made  in  a  charging  attitude,  the  mirthful 
Greeks  could  hold  in  no  longer,  but  burst  suddenly  into  a 
loud  and  prolonged  laugh,  in  which  the  Albanians  joined: 
they  all  laughed,  laughed  inextinguishably,  like  the 
blessed  Gods  on  Olympus,  and  the  whole  wineshop  was 
filled  with  wild  merriment.  Whereat  the  speech  was 
brought  to  a  close  which  may  be  modestly  called  a  happy 
one :  thus  let  it  be  now. 


IV.     MARATHON. 

As  soon  as  the  speech  had  come  to  an  end,  I  rose  and 
looked  out  of  the  wineshop,  desiring  to  take  a  short  stroll 
before  going  to  bed,  in  order  to  catch  a  breath  of  fresh 
air  and  to  see  a  Greek  evening  in  the  Marathonian  vale. 
Though  long  after  sunset,  it  appeared  light  out  of  doors 
every- where  ;  that  vague  flicker  from  the  sky  it  was  which 
gives  a  mystical  indefiniteness  to  the  things  of  Nature  and 
produces  such  a  marked  contrast  to  the  clear  plastic  out- 
lines of  day-time.  The  schoolmaster  went  along,  and  we 
walked  up  the  stream  of  Marathon,  which  often  gurgled 
into  a  momentary  gleam  over  the  pebbles,  and  then  fell 
back  into  darkness.  The  mountains  on  each  side  of  us 
were  changed  into  curious  fantastic  shapes  which  played 
in  that  subtle  light ;  caprice  of  forms  now  ruled  the 
beautiful  Greek  world,  as  begotten  in  the  sport  of  a 
Northern  fancy ;  Hecate  with  her  rout  of  witches  and 


MARATHON.  77 

goblins  had  broken  loose  from  her  dark  caverns  in  the 
earth  and  was  flitting  across  glimmering  patches  of  twi- 
light up  and  down  the  hill-sides.  Below  the  peaks  the 
dells  and  little  seams  of  valleys  running  athwart  one  an- 
other were  indicated  by  lines  of  darkness  so  that  their 
whole  figure  came  to  resemble  a  many-legged  monster 
crawling  down  the  slant ;  while  above  on  the  summits 
was  the  dreamy  play  of  light  with  the  dance  of  the  fair- 
ies. But  these  shapes  let  us  shun  in  Greece ;  we  may 
allow  them  to  sport  capriciously  before  us  for  a  few  mo- 
ments in  the  evening,  though  in  truth  they  belong  not  here. 
Let  us  then  hasten  back  to  the  wineshop  and  await  to-mor- 
row the  return  of  Phoebus  Apollo,  the  radiant  Greek  God, 
who  will  slay  these  Pythons  anew  with  his  shining  arrows 
and  put  to  flight  all  the  weird  throng,  revealing  again 
our  world  in  clear  clean-cut  outlines  bounded  in  his  soft 
sunlight. 

When  we  arrived  there,  we  still  found  the  priest  —  the 
long-haired,  dark-stoled  Papas,  though  nearly  every  body 
else  had  gone  home.  He  began  to  catechise  me  on  the 
subject  of  religion,  particularly  its  ceremonies ;  of  which 
examination  I,  knowing  my  weakness,  tried  to  keep  shy. 
But  he  broke  out  directly  upon  me  with  this  question : 
Were  you  ever  baptized?  Therein  a  new  shortcoming 
was  revealed  to  myself,  for  I  had  to  confess  that  I  actu- 
ally did  not  know ;  I  did  not  recollect  any  such  event 
myself,  and  I  had  always  forgotten  to  ask  my  father 
whether  the  rite  had  ever  been  performed  over  me  when 
an  infant.  The  priest  thought  that  this  was  bad,  very 
bad  —  fcafcon,  polu  kdkon  was  his  repeated  word  of  dis- 
approbation ;  then  he  asked  me  if  I  never  intended  to  be 
baptized.  This  question,  here  at  Marathon,  drove  me  to 
bed ;  I  at  once  called  for  a  light.  But  it  was  only  one  of 
the  frequent  manifestations  that  will  be  observed  in  mod- 
ern Greece,  of  a  tendency  to  discuss  religious  subtleties. 
The  ecclesiastical  disputes  of  the  Byzantine  Empire  — 
Homoousian  and  Homoiousian  —  will  often  to-day  be 
brought  up  vividly  to  the  mind  of  the  traveler.  Espe- 
cially the  ceremonies  of  the  Eastern  Church  are  main- 
tained with  much  'vigor  and  nice  distinction  in  a  very 


78  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

finespun  and  consequently,  very  thin  tissue  of  argument- 
ation. 

After  excusing  myself  from  the  Papas,  who  in  company 
with  me  performs  a  slight  inner  baptism  of  himself  with  a 
glass  of  recinato  as  the  final  ceremony  of  the  day,  I  ask  to 
be  conducted  to  my  quarters,  and  am  led  to  an  adjoining 
building  upstairs.  The  room  is  without  furniture  ;  in  one 
corner  of  it  lies  a  mattress  covered  with  coarse  sfieeting  and 
a  good  quilt,  on  the  floor  —  for  in  Greece  bedsteads  are  not 
much  in  vogue.  They  are  considered  to  be  in  the  way  and 
to  take  up  unnecessary  room  ;  so  the  bed-clothes  are  spread 
out  on  the  floor  along  the  hearth  every  evening  and  packed 
away  every  morning.  This  bed  was  considered  a  particu- 
larly good  one,  intended  for  strangers  who  might  visit 
Marathon  and  who  had  to  pay  for  it  two  francs  a  night. 
Indeed,  during  a  great  portion  of  the  year  in  this  hot  cli- 
mate, the  bed  is  not  only  unnecessary  but  a  nuisance  in 
which  one  can  only  roll  and  swelter ;  hence  the  family  bed 
has  no  such  place  in  the  Greek  as  in  the  Northern  house- 
hold. 

The  light  which  is  left  me  is  also  worthy  of  a  passing 
notice.  It  consists  of  a  cup  two-thirds  filled  with  water ; 
on  the  water  lies  half  an  inch  of  olive  oil ;  on  the  surface 
of  the  oil  is  floating  a  small  piece  of  wood  to  which  a 
slender  wick  is  attached  reaching  into  the  oil ;  the  upper 
end  of  this  wick  is  lighted,  and  painfully  throws  its 
shadowy  glimmer  on  the  walls.  A  truly  pristine  light, 
going  bacK  probably  to  old  Homer,  thinks  the  traveler, 
by  which  the  blind  bard  could  have  sat  and  hymned  his 
lines  to  eager  listeners  around  the  evening  board ;  an  ex- 
tremely economical  light,  burning  the  entire  night  with- 
out any  diminution  of  the  oil  apparently  and  giving  a  pro- 
portionate illumination  —  it  is  a  hard  light  to  read  by, 
still  harder  to  write  by.  There  is  no  tallow  in  the  coun- 
try for  candles  ;  the  little  wax  which  is  produced  is  used 
for  tapers  in  the  churches.  There  is  no  desk  or  chair  in 
the  room ;  one  must  write  on  the  floor  in  some  way,  if  he 
wishes  to  send  a  line  to  the  dear  ones,  or  take  a  note. 

Accordingly  the  traveler  goes  to  bed,  props  himself 
upon  his  elbow,  opens  his  book  on  the  floor  near  the 


MARATHON.  79 

light  —  but  the  eyes  swim  for  a  moment,  the  head  totters, 
back  it  falls  upon  the  mattress :  that  is  the  end  of  one 
day's  adventure ;  he  will  rapidly  descend  into  Lethe, 
where,  though  in  dreams  he  fight  the  great  battle  over 
again  alongside  of  Miltiades  at  one  moment,  and  the  next 
moment  argue  the  question  of  baptism  with  the  Papas, 
he  will  lie  in  sweet  unconscious  repose,  till  the  Sun-god 
rising  from  his  bath  in  the  ocean  stretch  his  long  golden 
fingers  through  the  window,  gently  open  the  eyelids  and 
whisper  to  the  slumberer  who  will  hear  though  half  awake : 
"Rise,  it  is  the  day  of  Marathon."  Thereupon  the 
traveler  leaps  from  his  couch,  for  he  knows  that  it  is  the 
voice  of  a  God  and  he  dares  not  disobey ;  if  he  have  any 
winged  sandals,  he  now  puts  them  on,  for  to-day  he  will 
have  to  make  an  Olympian  flight ;  if  he  have  that  staff  of 
Hermes  with  which  the  Argus-slayer  conducts  departed 
souls  out  of  Hades  and  into  it,  he  will  seize  the  same  and 
sally  forth,  for  to-day  he  will  have  to  call  up  from  the 
past  many  mighty  spirits  —  those  colossal  shades  which 
still  rise  at  Marathon. 

When  I  came  out  of  my  high-sounding  chamber  in  the 
morning,  I  met  my  good  host  with  an  ewer  of  water  which 
he  proceeded  to  pour  upon  my  hands  for  the  purpose  of 
ablution ;  unpoetical  washbasins  do  not  exist,  or  were  re- 
fused me,  perchance  on  account  of  my  Homeric  habits. 
After  a  breakfast  quite  like  the  supper  on  the  previous 
evening,  I  begin  the  march  for  the  battle  of  Marathon, 
having  filled  a  small  haversack  with  a  piece  of  black  bread 
and  some  cheese  for  luncheon,  and  having  slung  around 
my  shoulder  a  canteen  of  recinato.  Nor  do  I  forget  my 
chief  weapons — two  books  and  the  maps,  which  I  hold 
tightly  under  my  arm.  Thus  equipped,  I  tread  along, 
with  becoming  modesty  I  trust,  yet  with  no  small  hopes 
of  victory. 

But  there  is  no  hurry,  let  the  gait  still  be  leisurely.  As 
I  pass  down  the  road  through  the  village  which  is  spread 
out  on  the  banks  of  the  stream,  I  meet  many  an  acquaint- 
ance made  the  evening  before  at  the  wineshop ;  each 
recognizes  me  by  a  slight  nod  of  the  head  with  a  pleasant 
smile.  All  of  them  seemed  still  to  be  laughing  at  the 


80  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

idea  of  my  being, an  ancient  Hoplite  now  revisiting  for- 
mer scenes  of  activity.  Such  friendly  greeting  on  every 
side  together  with  the  genial  sunshine  of  the  morning  puts 
the  traveler  into  a  happy  mood,  slightly  transcendental 
\>erhaps.  Whatever  he  now  does  is  an  adventure  worth 
recording  to  future  ages ;  whatever  he  now  sees  is  a 
divine  revelation. 

Passing  along  to  a  shelving  place  in  the  stream,  he 
beholds  the  washers  —  one  hundred  women  or  more  at 
work  with  furious  muscle,  pounding,  scouring,  rubbing, 
rinsing  the  filth-begrimed  fustanellas  of  their  husbands, 
brothers,  sons.  There  is  a  strength,  vigor,  and  I  should 
say,  anger  in  their  motions,  that  they  seem  animated  by 
some  feeling  of  revenge  against  those  dirty  garments, 
and  in  my  opinion  with  good  reason.  One  Amazonian 
arm  is  wielding  a  billet  of  wood,  quite  of  the  weight  and 
somewhat  resembling  the  shape  of  the  maul  with  which 
the  American  woodman  drives  wedges  into  the  gnarled 
oak.  Upon  a  flat  smooth  stone  are  laid  the  garments, 
boiled,  soaped  and  steaming,  when  they  are  belabored  by 
that  maul.  None  of  our  modern  machinery  is  seen,  even 
the  washboard  is  very  imperfect  or  does  not  appear  at  all. 
Somehow  in  this  wise  the  ancient  Nausicaas  must  have 
blanched  their  linen  .at  the  clear  Marathonian  stream  ; 
one  will  unconsciously  search  now  with  eager  glances  for 
the  divine  Phseacian  maid  to  see  whether  she  be  not  here 
still.  At  present  the  washers  are  strewn  along  the  marble 
edge  of  the  water  for  quite  a  distance,  dressed  in  white, 
bare-armed,  mostly  bare-footed  and  bare-legged,  in  the 
liveliest,  fiercest  muscular  motion,  as  if  wrestling  desper- 
ately with  some  fiend.  Look  at  the  struggling,  wriggling, 
smiting  mass  of  mad  women  —  Maenads  under  some 
divine  enthusiasm  —  while  the  sides  of  old  Kotroni 
Mountain  across  the  river  re-echoes  with  the  thud 
of  their  relentless  billets.  A  truly  Marathonian  battle 
against  filth,  with  this  very  distinct  utterance:  "  For 
one  day  at  least  we  are  going  to  be  clean  in 
Marathon." 

But  it  is  impossible  to  look  at  the  washers  all  the. time, 
however  fascinating  the   view ;  indeed  I  had  almost  for- 


MARATHON.  81 

gotten  that  I  am  on  ray  way  to  the  field  of  the  great  bat- 
tle—  which  does  not  speak  well  for  an  ancient  Hoplite. 
I  still  pass  along  the  stream  with  its  white  lining  of  mar- 
ble through  which  flows  the  current  pellucid  ;  —  what ! 
are  the  eyes  deceived,  or  is  the  water  actually  diminish- 
ing in  the  channel?  Yes,  not  only  has  it  diminished, 
but  now  a  few  steps  further  it  has  wholly  vanished,  sunk 
away  into  the  earth,  leaving  merely  a  dry  rocky  bed  for 
the  wildest  torrent  of  the  storm.  Thus  that  crisp  joyous 
mountain  stream  which  gave  us  such  delight  in  its  dance 
down  the  hill  through  the  valley  when  we  looked  at  it 
coming  to  Marathon,  now  disappears  with  its  entire 
volume  of  water,  to  rise  again  in  the  marshes  beyond  or 
perchance  in  the  sea. 

This  phenomenon  is  not  unusual  in  Greece,  and  like  all 
occurrences  of  Nature  in  this  country,  has  been  stamped 
with  a  spiritual  impress.  Rivers  sink  away,  pass  through 
a  channel  underground,  then  come  again  to  the  surface, 
possibly  to  vanish,  and  to  rise  a  second  time  in  like  man- 
ner. There  is  a  special  Greek  word  to  designate  such  a 
subterranean  passage :  it  is  called  the  catabothron.  Many 
a  stream,  therefore,  has  its  catabothron,  and  this  fact 
always  gave  origin  to  a  pretty  fable  which  was  elaborated 
by  the  poet  of  the  neighborhood  and  through  him  passed 
into  the  mythical  treasures  of  the  people.  A  beautiful 
stream  of  water  ripples  down  from  the  mountain  and  sinks 
away ;  it  is  the  fair  nymph  Marathonia  who  is  ravished 
by  Seismos,  the  laud-heaving  Earthquake,  rising  out  of 
the  ground,  as  she  is  bathing  in  her  rivulet  and  revealing 
her  beauty ;  but  after  long  struggle  and  flight,  she  is 
rescued  by  her  mother,  the  far-sounding  Amphitrite  in 
the  bosom  of  tke  sea.  Thus  each  little  locality  of  Greece 
had  its  fountain  of  poetry,  incessantly  welling  up  into 
legend  and  song. 

But  this  is  not  all.  Why  did  the  Greek  seize  upon  Na- 
ture and  weave  out  of  her  hints  that  wonderful  texture  of 
fable?  It  was  just  he  who  did  it  with  supreme  beauty, 
just  he  and  nobody  else ;  manifestly  he  wrought  from 
some  deep  need  of  expressing  himself,  he  had  to  utter 
what  was  within  him,  his  spiritual  life  and  also  the  life  of 


82  A    WALK  7.Y  HELLAS. 

his  community.  Nature  lay  there  before  him  and  was 
profoundly  sympathetic  with  his  utterance  ;  into  her  forms 
he  wrought  his  experience,  his  intellectual  stores,  his  his- 
tory. For  instance,  a  village  migrates,  a  colony  is  sent 
out,  a  religious  rite  is  introduced  from  abroad,  a  political 
institution  is  transplanted  —  what  is  it  but  a  spring,  a 
stream,  a  water-nymph,  disappearing  at  the  one  place  and 
rising  at  the  other?  Before  his  door  is  the  river,  it  does 
the  same  thing  and  becomes  the  expression  thereof ;  let 
him  but  narrate  its  course  and  he  has  the  deep  poetic  hint 
of  his  own  life,  and  it  may  be,  of  the  life  of  his  whole  na- 
tion and  race.  Perhaps  the  best  known  of  these  legends 
is  that  of  Arethusa,  the  beautiful  nymph  of  Elis,  one  of 
Diana's  choir,  who  beloved  of  the  river-god  Alpheius,  fled 
under  the  sea,  still  pursued  by  the  god,  when  finally  she 
rose  in  the  fountain  Arethusa  in  Sicily.  A  cup  thrown 
into  the  river  Alpheius  in  Greece  would  be  cast  up  at  the 
Sicilian  fountain  ;  the  blood  of  sacrifice  which  flowed  into 
the  river  during  the  -great  Olympic  festival  would  ensan- 
guine the  waters  of  fair  Arethusa  over  the  sea.  A  poetic- 
al people  we  behold,  always  grasping  Nature  and  making 
her  the  voice  of  their  deed,  the  expression  of  their  spirit- 
ual revolutions.  There  was  a  great  colonization  of  Sicily 
from  Greece  in  the  7th  and  8th  centuries  B.  C.,  a  trans- 
ference thither  of  Greek  customs,  institutions,  language ; 
must  there  not  be  some  utterance  of  that  important  event 
from  the  hearts  of  the  people,  taken  directly  from  that 
which  they  see  before  themselves  every  day? 

Such  an  utterance,  however,  becomes  a  legend  —  an 
expression  of  all  similar  occurrences :  hence  it  is  truly  a 
symbol  and  lasts  forever.  Thus  the  Greek  has  created  the 
symbols,  at  least  the  most  beautiful  symbols  of  the  race, 
for  they  are  employed  to-day  by  Art  and  must  be  eter- 
nally employed.  This  is  the  supreme  significance  of 
Greek  mj'thology.  Notice  once  more  that  it  comes  from 
Nature,  yet  it  is  not  merely  natural ;  nor,  on  the  other 
hand,  though  it  bears  the  impress  of  Spirit,  is  it  merely 
allegorical ;  it  is  the  perfect  blending  of  Nature  and  Spirit, 
their  happy  interpenetration ;  thus  a  brook,  a  thing  of 
Nature,  leaps  up  into  the  human  shape,  while  a  revolution, 


MARATHON.  83 

a  tiling  of  Spirit  drops  down  into  the  subterranean  course 
of  the  brook. 

With  such  thoughts  I  pass  by  the  Marathonian  cata- 
bothron,  see  the  waters  swoon  away  into  the  earth  ;  then 
I  have  to  ask  myself :  where  will  it  rise  next  ?  Not  in  the 
Euripus  yonder,  I  say ;  not  even  across  the  sea  in  Sicily  — 
it  has  already  gone  much  farther.  The  Marathonian 
stream  is  certain  to  pass  beyond  the  Pillars  of  Hercules, 
wind  its  way  under  a  great  ocean,  worm  through  the  cav- 
ernous passages  of  a  continent,  rise  up  once  more  on  the 
banks  of  the  Father  of  Waters,  with  whose  turbid  current 
it  will  mingle,  and  add  thereto  a  little  of  its  quiet  trans- 
parent beauty.  Can  you  not  see  it  rising  already  ? 

So  one  saunters  down  that  short  neck  which  attaches 
the  village  to  the  plain,  joyously  attuned  by  the  climate 
and  trying  to  throw  himself  back  into  that  spirit  which 
created  the  old  Greek  Mythology,  determined  to  see  here 
what  an  ancient  Greek  would  see.  Nature  begins  to  be 
alive,  she  begins  to  speak  strange  things  in  his  soul  and  to 
reveal  new  shapes  to  his  vision  ;  an  Ovead  skips  along  the 
mountain  with  him,  while  the  Naiads  circle  in  a  chorus 
round  the  neighboring  fountain.  Such  company  he  must 
find,  if  he  truly  travel  in  Greece.  Not  as  a  sentimental 
play  of  the  fancy,  not  as  a  pretty  bauble  for  the  amuse- 
ment of  a  dreary  hour,  but  as  a  vital  source  of  faith  and 
action,  as  a  deep  and  abiding  impulse  to  the  greatest  and 
most  beautiful  works,  will  the  loyal  traveler  seek  to  realize 
within  himself  these  antique  forms. 

But  that  shape  at  3ronder  spring  drawing  water,  —  what 
can  it  be  ?  Clearly  not  a  Naiad ;  dark  eyes  flashing  out 
from  blooming  features  that  lie  half  hidden  among  her 
hair  f ailing  dowji  carelessly  on  both  sides  of  her  forehead, 
a  short  dress  drooping  over  her  luxuriant  frame  in  roman- 
tic tatters  of  many  colors,  under  which  the  bosom  swells 
half  exposed,  cause  the  white  water-nymphs  to  vanish  into 
viewless  air  and  leave  a  seductive  image  behind,  which 
will  long  accompany  the  traveler  in  spite  of  himself,  rising 
at  intervals  and  dancing  through  his  thoughts  even  at 
Marathon.  It  is  the  Wallachian  maiden  who  has  come 
down  from  her  mountain  lodge  for  water,  which  in  two 


84  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

large  casks  she  puts  on  the  back  of  a  donkey.  A  wild 
beauty,  fascinating  on  account  of  wildness,  not  devoid 
of  a  certain  coy  coquetry ;  she  seems  not  displeased  to 
have  attracted  the  marked  attention  of  that  man  in  Prank- 
ish garments  who  is  passing  along  the  road,  for  her  dark 
eyes  shoot  out  new  sparkles  from  under  the  falling  tresses, 
tempered  with  subdued  smiles.  She  has  nothing  to  do 
with  the  villagers  of  Marathon,  she  is  a  child  of  the  mount- 
ains, she  belongs  to  a  different  world.  Slowly  she  passes 
out  of  sight  with  her  charge  into  the  brushwood  ;  looking 
back  at  the  last  step  she  stoops  and  plucks  a  tlower ;  then 
she  springs  up  and  vanishes  among  the  leaves. 

It  is  a  slight  disappointment,  perhaps :  but  look  now, 
in  the  opposite  direction,  and  you  will  behold  in  the  road 
going  toward  the  plain  anew  and  very  delightful  appear- 
ance ;  three  white  robes  are  there  moving  gracefully  al.wg 
through  the  clear  atmosphere  and  seem  to  be  set  in  high 
relief  against  the  hilly  background.  Three  women,  evi- 
dently of  the  wealthier  people  of  the  village,  for  their  gar- 
ments are  of  stainless  purity  and  adjusted  with  unusual 
care,  appear  to  be  taking  a  walk  at  their  leisure  down  the 
valley.  Their  dress  is  a  long  loose  gown  flowing  freely 
down  to  the  heels,  all  of  it  shows  the  spotless  white  except 
a  narrow  pink  border.  Over  this  dress  is  worn  a  woolen 
mantilla,  also  white  with  a  small  border.  At  the  view 
there  arises  the  feeling  which  will  often  be  experienced  in 
other  localities  of  Greece  with  even  greater  intensity :  the 
feeling  of  a  living  plastic  outline  which  suggests  its  own 
copy  in  marble.  No  costume  can  possibly  be  so  beauti- 
ful and  so  distinct  in  this  atmosphere ;  there  they  move 
along,  as  if  statues  should  start  from  their  pedestals  and 
walk  down  from  their  temples  through  the  fields.  Why  the 
white  material  was  taken  by  the  old  artists  for  sculpture, 
becomes  doubly  manifest  now ;  here  is  the  living  model  in 
her  fair  drapery,  yonder  across  the  river  is  the  marble, 
Pentelic  marble,  cropping  out  of  the  hills.  Unite  the 
twain,  they  belong  together,  both  have  still  a  mute  long- 
ingto  be  joined  once  more  in  happy  marriage.  I  have  not 
the  least  doubt  that  the  ancient  Marathonian  woman  in 
the  age  of  the  battle  paced  through  this  valley  in  a  similar 


MARATHON.  85 

costume,    producing   similar   sensations   in    this    bluish 
transparent  air. 

But  the  three  shapes  draw  near,  one  will  look  into  their 
faces  as  they  pass,  they  are  Albanian  women,  not  beauti- 
ful by  any  means,  not  with  features  corresponding  to  their 
costumes,  you  will  say.  Therefore  we  must  add  some- 
thing very  essential  to  bring  back  that  ancient  Greek 
woman,  for  she  had  brought  body  into  the  happiest  har- 
mony with  dress,  if  we  may  judge  of  those  types  which 
have  come  down  to  us.  Still  this  is  a  delightful  vision  of 
antique  days,  passing  in  stately  gait  through  the  clear  sun- 
lit landscape ;  —  forms  of  white  marble  in  contrast  to  the 
many-colored  tatters  of  the  Wallachian  maiden,  who,  hav- 
ing no  sympathy  of  dress  with  the  climate  shows  that  she 
does  not  belong  to  Marathon. 

Now  we  have  arrived  —  if  you  have  succeeded  in 
keeping  up  with  me  —  at  the  point  where  the  bed  of  the 
river  passes  into  the  plain,  in  full  view  of  which  we  at 
present  stand.  It  sweeps  around  almost  crescent-shaped, % 
like  the  side  of  a  vast  amphitheater  cut  into  the  mount- 
ains ;  the  line  from  tip  to  tip  of  the  arc  is  said  to  meas- 
ure about  six  miles.  That  line,  seen  from  the  spot  where 
we  now  are,  has  a  beautiful  blue  border  of  sparkling 
water  —  the  Euripus,  which  separates  the  mainland  from 
the  island  Eubcea.  There  is  upon  the  plain  but  one  tree 
worthy  of  the  name  —  a  conifer  which  rises  strange  and 
solitary  about  in  the  center  of  it,  and  looks  like  a  man, 
with  muffled  head  in  soldier's  cloak  standing  guard,  still 
waiting  for  some  enemy  to  come  out  of  the  East.  The 
plain  is  at  present  largely  cultivated,  vineyards  and 
fields  of  grain  are  scattered  through  it,  but  the  ancient 
olives  are  wanting.  At  the  northern  horn  of  the  crescent 
is  a  large  morass  running  quite  parallel  to  the  sea ;  a 
smaller  one  is  at  the  southern  horn.  Into  the  plain  two 
villages  debouch,  both  having  roads  from  Athens.  There 
is  a  beautiful  shore  gradually  shelving  off  into  deep 
water  with  a  gravel  bottom ;  here  the  traveler  will  sit 
long  and  look  at  the  waves  breaking  one  after  another 
upon  the  beach.  This  coast,  however,  is  but  a  narrow 
strip  for  several  miles :  just  behind  it  lies  amid  the  grass 


86  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

the  deceptive  marsh,  not  visible  at  any  considerable  dist- 
ance. This  morass  and  its  conformation  will  explain  the 
great  miracle  of  the  battle :  namely,  its  decisiveness  not- 
withstanding the  enormous  disparity  in  the  numbers  of 
the  two  contending  armies.  For  the  morass  was  the 
treacherous  enemy  lurking  in  ambuscade  at  the  rear  and 
under  the  very  feet  of  the  Persians. 

In  regard  to  the  battle  of  Marathon  we  have  only  one 
trustworthy  account  —  this  is  given  by  Herodotus,  the 
Father  of  History.  It  is  short  and  omits  much  that  we 
would  like  to  know,  indeed  must  know  in  order  to  com- 
prehend the  battle.  Still,  a  view  of  the  ground  will  sug- 
gest the  general  plan,  with  the  help  of  the  old  historian's 
hints  and  of  one  contemporary  fact  handed  down  by  the 
traveler  Pausanias.  The  battle  was  a  fierce  attack  in 
front,  aided  by  the  enemy  in  the  rear  —  the  morass,  which 
had  a  double  power.  It,  on  the  one  hand,  prevented  the 
foe  from  getting  assistance,  which  could  only  come  from 
the  ships  by  a  long  detour  round  the  narrow  strip  of  coast 
easily  blocked  by  a  few  soldiers.  On  the  other  hand, 
broken  or  even  unbroken  lines  being  forced  into  the 
swampy  ground  would  become  hopelessly  disordered,  and 
would  have  enough  to  do  fighting  the  enemy  under  their 
feet. 

Imagine  now  this  line  of  coast  with  the  vessels  drawn 
up  sternwards  along  the  shelving  bank ;  then  comes  the 
narrow  strip  of  shore  on  which  a  portion  of  the  Persian 
army  lies  encamped ;  then  follows  the  marshy  tract,  then 
the  plain  upon  which  another  portion  of  the  Persian  army 
is  drawn  up ;  still  further  and  beyond  the  plain  is  the 
slope  of  the  mountain  where  with  good  vision  you  can 
see  the  Athenians  arrayed  in  order  of  battle.  At  the 
mouth  of  one  of  the  two  villages,  doubtless  near  the 
modern  hamlet  of  Vrana  they  have  taken  position,  since 
they  could  easily  pass  round  the  road  and  protect  the 
other  valley,  if  a  movement  should  be  made  in  that  direc- 
tion by  the  enemy.  Single-handed  of  all  the  states  of 
Greece  they  stand  here ;  they  had  sent  for  aid  to  the 
Spartans  who  refused  to  come  on  account  of  a  religious 
festival.  Still  the  suspicion  lives  and  will  forever  live 


MAKA.THON.  87 

through  history  that  this  was  a  mere  pretense,  that  the 
Spartans  would  gladly  have  seen  their  rival  destroyed, 
though  at  the  peril  of  Greek  freedom. 

But  who  are  these  men  filing  silently  through  the  brush- 
wood of  Mount  Kotroni,  in  leather  helmets  and  rude  kilts, 
hurrying  forward  to  the  aid  of  the  Athenians?  They  are 
the  Plataeans,  a  small  community  of  Boeotia,  in  all  Greece 
the  only  town  outside  of  Attica  that  has  the  courage  and 
the  inclination  to  face  the  Persian  foe.  One  thousand 
men  are  here  from  that  small  place  —  a  quiet  rural  village 
lying  on  the  slopes  of  Kithaeron ;  the  whole  male  popula- 
tion, one  is  forced  to  think,  including  every  boy  and  old 
man  capable  of  bearing  arms  is  in  that  band,  for  the  entire 
community  could  hardly  number  more  than  three  or  four 
thousand  souls.  Yet  here  they  are  to  the  last  man  ;  one 
almost  imagines  that  some  of  the  women  must  be  among 
them  in  disguise  —  as  to-day  the  Greek  women  of  Par- 
nassus often  handle  the  gun  with  skill,  and  have  been 
known  to  light  desperately  in  the  ranks  alongside  of  their 
fathers  and  brothers.  But  think  of  what  was  involved  in 
that  heroic  deed;  the  rude  villagers  assemble  when  the 
messenger  comes  with  the  fearful  news  that  the  Persian 
had  landed  just  across  at  Marathon  ;  in  the  market-place 
they  deliberate,  having  hurried  from  their  labor  in  the 
fields,  in  coarse  rustic  garb  with  bare  feet  slipped  into 
low  sandals  ;  uncouth  indeed  they  seem,  but  if  there  ever 
were  men  on  the  face  of  this  earth,  they  were  in  Plataea 
at  that  hour.  No  faint-hearted  words  were  there,  we  have 
the  right  to  assume  —  no  half-hearted  support ;  no  hesita- 
tion ;  every  man  takes  his  place  in  the  files,  the  command 
to  march  is  given  and  they  all  are  off.  Nor  can  we  forget 
the  anxiety  Jeft  behind  in  the  village  ;  the  Greek  wife  with 
child  on  her  arm  peers  out  of  the  door,  taking  a  last  look 
at  that  receding  column  winding  up  Kithaeron  and  dis- 
appearing over  its  summit ;  there  is  not  a  husband,  not  a 
grown-up  son  remaining  in  Plataea.  What  motive,  do 
you  ask  ?  I  believe  that  these  rude  Greek  rustics  were 
animated  by  a  profound  instinct  which  may  be  called  not 
only  national  but  world-historical — the  instinct  of  hostility 
to  the  Orient  and  its  principle  in  favor  of  political 


88  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

autonomy  and  individual  freedom.  Also  another  ground 
of  their  conduct  was  gratitude  toward  the  Athenians  who 
had  saved  them  from  the  tyranny  of  Thebes,  their  over- 
bearing neighbor ;  now  their  benefactors  are  in  the  sorest 
need,  patriotism  and  friendship  alike  command,  there  can 
be  no  hesitation.  So  those  thousand  men  on  a  September 
day  wind  through  the  pines  and  arbutes  of  Kotroni  with 
determined  tread,  are  received  with  great  joy  by  the 
Athenians  and  at  once  take  their  position  on  the  left  wing 
ready  for  the  onset.  Let  any  village  in  the  world's  history 
match  the  deed !  Well  may  the  Athenians  after  that  day 
join  the  Plataeans  with  themselves  in  public  prayers  to 
the  Gods,  in  whose  defense  both  have  marched  out. 

Scarcely  have  these  allies  arrived,  we  may  suppose, 
when  the  moment  of  battle  is  at  hand.  Doubtless  it  was 
the  most  favorable  moment,  and  as  such  eagerly  seized  by 
Miltiades  ;  why  it  was  so  favorable  no  one  at  this  late  day 
can  know.  Perhaps  the  much-feared  Persian  cavalry 
were  absent  on  a  foraging  expedition,  perhaps  the  enemy 
were  negligent  or  were  embarking,  or,  as  Herodotus  says, 
because  it  was  Miltiades'  day  of  command ;  —  alas,  who 
can  tell?  At  any  rate  the  order  to  charge  is  given,  down 
the  declivity  the  Greeks  rush,  over  the  plain  for  a  mile. 
The  deep  files  on  the  wings  of  their  army  bear  every  thing 
before  them ;  but  the  center  is  defeated  for  a  time  and 
driven  back,  for  it  had  apparently  been  weakened  to 
strengthen  the  wings.  Such  is  the  first  fierce  attack. 

Now  comes  the  second  stage  of  the  struggle,  the  battle 
at  the  marshes.  The  front  of  the  enemy,  pressed  by  the 
Greeks  and  consolidated  into  a  mass  of  panic-stricken 
fugitives  bore  the  rear  backwards  ;  thus  the  whole  hostile 
army  pushed  itself  into  the  swamp.  Whoever  has  seen  a 
regiment  of  infantry  in  a  morass,  reeling,  struggling  with 
broken  lines,  sinking  under  their  equipments,  soldiers  ex- 
tricating one  foot  only  to  sink  deeper  with  the  other, 
cursing  their  stars  and  damning  the  war,  that  is,  a  com- 
plete loss  of  all  discipline  and  a  sort  of  despair  on  account 
of  the  new  victorious  enemy  underfoot  —  such  a  person 
can  imagine  the  condition  of  a  large  part  of  the  Persian 
army  after  that  attack.  The  Greek  lines  stood  on  th« 


MARATHON.  89 

edge  of  the  marsh  and  smote  the  struggling  disordered 
mass  with  little  or  no  loss  to  themselves.  They  also  pre- 
vented succor  from  coming  round  the  narrow  tongue  of 
coast  till  the  battle  at  the  morass  was  over,  wholly  victo- 
rious for  the  Greeks. 

The  narrative  of  Herodotus  omits  entirely  this  second 
stage  of  the  conflict,  and  modern  historians  have  slurred 
it  over  with  little  or  no  separate  attention.  Thus,  how- 
ever, the  whole  battle  is  an  unaccountable  mystery. 
Fortunately  this  struggle  at  the  morass  and  its  result  are 
vouched  for  by  an  authority  at  once  original  and  eotem- 
poraneous  —  an  authority  even  better  than  Herodotus  who 
was  a  foreigner  from  Asia  Minor.  It  was  the  picture  in 
the  Poekile  at  Athens  painted  not  long  after  the  battle. 
Of  the  details  of  that  picture  we  have  several  important 
hints  from  ancient  authors.  Says  Pausanias,  evidently 
speaking  of  its  leading  motive,  it  shows  "the  barbarians 
fleeing  and  pushing  one  another  into  the  swamp."  There 
can  be  no  doubt  that  this  was  the  salient  and  decisive  fact 
of  the  battle :  the  barbarians  fled  and  pushed  one  another 
into  the  swamp.  By  the  fierce  onset  of  the  Greeks  the 
front  lines  of  the  enemy  were  driven  upon  the  rear,  and 
the  whole  multitude  was  carried  by  its  own  weight  into 
the  treacherous  ground,  numbers  only  increasing  the 
momentum  and  the  confusion.  Such  was  the  conception 
of  the  artist  painting  the  battle  before  the  eyes  of  the  very 
men  who  had  participated  in  it ;  such,  therefore,  we  must 
take  to  be  the  contemporary  Athenian  conception.  The 
picture  may  well  be  considered  to  be  the  oldest  historical 
document  we  have  concerning  the  fight,  and  as  even  bet- 
ter evidence  than  the  foreign  historian.  The  ground, 
moreover,  as  we  look  at  it  to-day,  tells  the  same  story. 
A  skillful  military  commander  of  the  present  time,  other 
things  being  equal,  would  make  the  same  plan  of  attack. 
Thus,  too,  the  great  miracle  of  the  battle  — the  defeat  of 
so  many  by  so  few  and  the  small  loss  of  the  victors  —  is 
reasonably  cleared  up. 

The  third  stage  of  the  conflict  was  the  battle  at  the 
ships,  while  the  enemy  were  embarking.  This,  to  be 
successful,  had  to  take  place,  partly  upon  the  narrow 


90  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

strip  of  shore  to  which  the  Greeks  must  penetrate  at  a 
disadvantage.  In  their  zeal  they  rushed  into  the  water 
down  the  shelving  pebbly  bottom  in  order  to  seize  the 
fleet;  still  the  faithful  traveler  visiting  the  scene  will, 
after  their  example,  wade  far  out  into  the  sea.  Seven 
vessels  were  taken  out  of  six  hundred,  the  enemy  making 
good  their  embarkation.  Many  Greeks  here  suffered  the 
fate  of  brave  Kynageirus,  brother  of  the  poet  .ZEschylus, 
who  seizins:  hold  of  a  vessel  had  his  arms  chopped  off  by 
a  Persian  battle-ax.  In  general,  the  Greeks  were  re- 
pulsed at  the  battle  of  the  ships;  but  this  third  stage, 
since  the  enemy  were  leaving,  is  the  least  important  of 
the  whole  conflict. 

Not  a  word  does  Herodotus  say  about  the  numbers 
engaged  on  either  side  —  a  strange,  unaccountable  omis- 
sion. Yet  he  must  have  conversed  with  men  who  fought 
at  the  battle,  with  the  leaders  possibly,  and  he  gives  with 
the  greatest  care  the  loss  on  both  sides  —  G400  Persians, 
192  Athenians.  The  omission  leads  to  the  conjecture 
that  he  could  not  find  out  the  true  figures ;  yet  why  not 
at  Athens,  where  they  must  have  been  known?  It  is  a 
puzzle ;  let  each  one  solve  it  by  his  own  conjecture,  which 
is  likely  to  be  as  good  as  anybody  else's. 

Ancient  writers  much  later  than  the  battle  give  to  the 
Persians  from  2 10, 000  to  600,000  men  ;  to  the  Athenians 
and  Plataeans  10,000  men.  Modern  writers  have  sought 
through  various  sources  to  lessen  this  immense  disparity, 
by  increasing  the  Athenian  and  diminishing  the  Persian 
numbers.  Indeed  Marathon  became  the  topic  of  the 
wildest  exaggeration  for  the  Greek  orators  and  rhetori- 
cians—  300,000  were  said  to  have  been  slain  by  less 
than  10,000  ;  Kynageirus  already  mentioned  is  declared 
to  have  had  first  the  right  hand  cut  off,  then  the  left 
hand,  then  to  have  seized  the  vessel  with  his  teeth  like  a 
wild  animal ;  Callimachus,  a  brave  general  who  was  slain, 
is  represented  to  have  been  pierced  by  so  many  weapons 
that  he  was  held  up  by  their  shafts.  It  was  the  great 
common-place  of  Athenian  oratory,  thence  it  has  passed 
to  be  the  world's  common-place.  Justly,  in  my  opinion; 
for  it  is  one  of  the  supreme  world-events,  and  not 


MARATHON.  91 

merely  a  local  or  even  national  affair ;  thus  the  world 
will  talk  of  its  own  deeds.  Do  not  imagine  with  the 
shallow-brained  detractor  that  rhetoric  has  made  Mara- 
thon ;  no,  Marathon  rather  has  made  rhetoric,  among 
other  greater  things. 

Far  more  interesting  than  these  rhetorical  exaggerations 
of  a  later  time  are  the  contemporary  accounts  which  come 
from  the  people  and  show  their  faith  —  the  legends  of 
supernatural  appearances  which  took  part  in  the  fight. 
For  there  was  aught  divine,  the  people  must  believe,  at 
work  visibly  upon  the  battle-field  that  day.  Epizelus,  a 
soldier  in  the  ranks,  was  stricken  blind  and  remained  so 
during  life,  at  the  vision  of  a  gigantic  warrior  with  a  huge 
beard,  who  passed  near  him  and  smote  the  enemy.  The- 
seus, the  special  Athenian  hero,  Hercules  the  universal 
Greek  hero  were  there  and  seen  of  men  ;  no  doubt  of  it, 
the  heroes  all  did  fight  along,  with  very  considerable  effect 
too.  Nor  were  the  Gods  absent :  the  God  Pan,  regardless 
of  slighted  divinity,  met  the  courier  Phidippides  on  the  way 
to  Sparta  for  aid  and  promised  his  divine  help  if  the 
Athenians  would  neglect  him  no  longer.  Finally  Athena 
herself,  the  protecting  Goddess  of  the  city,  in  helm  and 
spear  strode  there  through  the  ranks,  shaking  her  dread- 
ful aegis,  visible  to  many,  nay,  to  all  Athenian  eyes. 

Even  a  new  hero  appears,  unheard  of  before  ;  in  rough 
rustic  garb,  armed  with  a  ploughshare  he  smote  the 
Oriental  foe  who  had  invaded  his  soil.  After  the  battle 
he  vanishes  —  who  was  he  ?  On-consulting  an  oracle  the 
Athenians  were  merely  told  to  pay  honors  to  the  Hero 
Echetlus.  On  the  whole  the  most  interesting  and  char- 
acteristic of  ^all  these  appearances  —  the  rustic  smiter  he 
is,  who  reveals  the  stout  rude  work  put  in  by  the  Attic 
peasant  on  that  famous  day.  Indeed  all  who  fell  were 
buried  on  the  sacred  ground  of  the  battle  and  were  wor- 
shiped as  heroes  with  annual  rites.  Still  in  the  time  of 
the  traveler  Pausanias,  about  150  years  after  Christ,  the 
air  was  filled  at  night  with  the  blare  of  trumpets,  the  neigh- 
ing of  steeds  and  the  clangor  of  battle.  Says  he :  "  It  is 
dangerous  to  go  to  the  spot  for  the  express  purpose  of 
seeing  what  is  going  on,  but  if  a  man  finds  himself  there 


92  A    WALK  IX  HELLAS. 

by  accident  without  having  heard  about  the  matter,  the 
Gods  will  not  be  angry. ' '  Greece  was  at  the  period  of 
Pausanias  extinct  in  Roman  servitude,  yet  the  clash  of 
that  battle  could  be  heard,  loud,  angry,  even  dangerous, 
over  six  hundred  years  after  the  event.  Still  the  modern 
peasant  hears  the  din  of  combat  in  the  air  sometimes  ;  I 
asked  him,  he  was  a  little  shy  of  the  matter ;  the  noise, 
however,  has  become  to  him  comparatively  feeble,  still 
there  is  a  noise.  But  long  will  it  be,  one  may  well  think, 
before  that  noise  wholly  subsides. 

So  the  Heroes  and  Gods  fought  along  with  the  Athen- 
ians at  Marathon,  visible,  almighty  and  in  wrath.  Thus 
it  has  been  delivered  to  us  on  good  authority ;  thus  I,  for 
one,  am  going  to  believe,  for  the  event  shows  it;  far 
otherwise  had  been  the  story,  if  the  Gods  had  not  fought 
along  on  that  day.  There  would  have  been  no  Maratho- 
nian  victory,  no  Athens,  no  Greek  literature,  for  us  at 
least.  But  now  Theseus,  the  deserving  Hero,  will  have 
a  new  temple,  beautiful,  enduring,  at  this  moment  nearly 
perfect,  after  almost  twenty-four  centuries.  Athena  also 
will  have  a  new  temple,  larger  and  more  beautiful  than 
any  heretofore,  still  the  unattained  type  of  all  temples  ; 
it  shall  be  called,  in  honor  of  the  virgin  Goddess,  the 
Parthenon.  Attic  song  will  now  burst  forth,  Attic  art  too, 
celebrating  just  this  Marathon  victory  ;  that  long  line  of 
poets,  orators,  philosophers,  historians,  will  now  appear  — 
all  because  the  Gods  fought  along  at  Marathon. 

For  can  we  not  see  the  Divine  at  once  springing  into 
artistic  utterance  at  Athens?  There  in  the  Poekile  or 
Painted  Porch  was  a  large  picture  representing  this 
battle  ;  prominent  were  the  forms  of  Miltiades  who  com- 
manded, of  Callimachus  whose  slain  body  was  held 
upright  by  the  piercing  spears,  of  Kynageirus  seizing  the 
vessel,  of  Epizelus  struck  blind  by  the  spectral  warrior. 
But  among  these  mortal  heroes  the  shapes  of  Hercules, 
Theseus,  Echetlus  stood  out  in  that  picture ;  above  all, 
however,  the  supreme  figure  was  painted  there,  the  war- 
like virgin  Athena,  clad  in  divine  armor,  moving  in  the 
midst  of  the  combat  with  death-dealing  glances  from  her 
awful-gleaming  eye.  Look  up  yonder  at  the  Acropolis  ; 


93 

there  too  she  stands,  or  will  soon  be  made  to  stand  — 
Athena  Promachos,  Athena  the  Forefighter,  in  full 
panoply  towering  toward  the  skies,  looking  off  on  the  sea 
in  proud  defiance  at  the  East.  Manifestly  the  Gods  were 
fighting  for  their  people  ;  let  it  be  imaged  before  all  eyes : 
then  we  have  Art,  which  is  the  Divine  appearing  in  our 
material  world  to  the  senses.  Many  a  regret  rises  that 
one  can  not  see  how  those  ancient  Artists  brought  the 
Goddess  down  from  Olympus  and  revealed  her  to  men 
after  beholding  her  at  Marathon. 

The  most  prominent  object  ontheplainof  Marathonisan 
artificial  mound,  perhaps  thirty  feet  high  at  present ;  upon 
it  is  growing  some  low  brushwood.  It  is  generally  con- 
sidered to  be  the  tomb  of  the  192  Athenians  who  were 
buried  on  the  battle-field  and  had  there  a  monument  on 
which  their  tribe  and  their  names  were  written.  To  the 
summit  of  this  mound  the  traveler  will  ascend  and  sit 
down  ;  he  will  thank  the  brambles  growing  upon  it  that 
they  have  preserved  it  so  well  in  their  rude  embrace  from 
the  leveling  rains.  He  may  reasonably  feel  that  he  is 
upon  the  rampart  which  separates  the  East  from  the 
West.  Yonder  just  across  this  narrow  strait  are  the 
mountains  of  Euboea,  snow-capped  and  loftily  proud,  yet 
they  stooped  their  heads  to  the  Persian  conqueror.  All 
the  islands  of  the  sea  submitted,  Asia  Minor  submitted. 
But  here-upon  this  shore  defiantly  facing  the  East,  was 
the  first  successful  resistance  to  the  Oriental  principle ; 
its  supporters  could  hardly  do  more  than  make  a  landing 
upon  these  banks,  when  down  from  the  mountains  swept 
fire  and  whirlwind,  burning  them  up,  driving  them  into 
the  sea.  Here  then  our  West  begins  or  began  in  Space 
and  Time,  we,  might  say  upon  this  very  mound ;  that  semi- 
circular sweep  of  hills  yonder  forms  the  adamantine  wall 
which  shut  out  Orientalism.  Regard  their  shape  once 
more ;  they  seem  to  open,  like  a  huge  pair  of  forceps, 
only  in  order  to  close  again  and  press  to  death. 

Strange  is  the  lot  of  the  men  buried  here,  the  uncon- 
scious instruments  of  a  world's  destiny,  nameless  except 
two  or  three  possibly.  Yet  they  had  some  mighty  force 
in  them  and  back  of  them ;  one  is  quite  inclined  to  think 


94  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

that  they  must  have  remotely  felt  in  some  dim  far-off 
presentiment  what  lay  in  their  deed  for  the  future,  and 
that  such  feeling  nerved  their  arms  to  a  hundredfold 
intensity.  Here  upon  the  mound  this  question  comes 
home  to  us  before  all  others :  What  is  man  but  that 
which  he  is  ready  to  die  for  ?  Such  is  his  earthly  con- 
tradiction :  if  he  have  that  for  which  he  is  willing  to  give 
his  life,  then  he  has  a  most  vital,  perdurable  energy ;  but 
if  he  have  nought  for  which  he  would  die,  then  he  is  already 
dead,  buried  ignobly  in  a  tomb  of  flesh. 

But  what  is  this  Greek  principle  which  Marathon  has 
preserved  for  us  against  the  Orient?  It  is  not  easy  to  be 
formulated  in  words,  to  anybody's  complete  satisfaction. 
Politically,  it  is  freedom  ;  in  Art,  it  is  Beauty  ;  in  Mind, 
it  is  Philosophy;  and  so  on,  through  many  other  abstract 
predicables.  Perhaps  we  may  say  that  the  fundamental 
idea  of  Greece  is  the  self-development  of  the  individual 
in  all  its  phases  —  the  individual  state,  the  individual 
city  or  town,  the  individual  man.  Henceforth  the  task  is 
to  unfold  the  germ  which  lies  within,  removed  from  exter- 
nal trammels  —  to  give  to  the  individual  a  free,  full, 
harmonious  development.  Thus  will  be  produced  the 
great  types  of  states,  of  men,  of  events ;  still,  further, 
these  types  will  then  be  reproduced  by  the  artist  in 
poetry,  in  marble,  in  history  and  in  many  other  forms. 
This  second  production  or  reproduction,  is,  indeed,  of  all 
Grecian  things,  the  most  memorable. 

The  battle  of  Marathon  is  itself  a  type  and  has  always 
been  considered  by  the  world  as  a  supreme  type  of  its 
kind,  representing  a  phase  of  the  spiritual.  Athens  from 
this  moment  has  the  spirit  of  which  the  Marathonian  deed 
is  only  an  utterance.  Soon  that  spirit  will  break  forth  in 
all  directions,  producing  new  eternal  types,  just  as  Mara- 
thon is  such  a  type  in  its  way.  Athenian  plastic  Art, 
Poetry,  Philosophy  are  manifestations  of  this  same  spirit 
and  show  in  a  still  higher  degree  than  the  battle,  the 
victory  over  Orientalism.  The  second  Persian  invasion 
came,  but  it  was  only  a  repetition  of  the  first  one  ;  it  too 
was  defeated  at  Marathon,  which  was  the  primitive  Great 
Deed,  the  standing  image  to  Greece  of  herself  and  all  of 


MARATHON'.  95 

her  possibilities.  Hence  the  use  of  it  so  often  by  her 
writers  and  speakers,  as  well  as  by  those  of  the  entire 
Western  world. 

With  Marathon,  too,  History  properly  begins ;  that 
is,  the  stream  of  History.  Now  it  becomes  a  defi- 
nite, demonstrable,  unbroken  current  sweeping  down 
to  our  own  times.  Before  Marathon,  indeed,  there  is 
History,  and  much  History,  but  it  is  in  flashes,  short 
or  long,  then  going  out  in  darkness.  The  history  of 
Greece  itself  before  Marathon  is  merely  an  agglomera- 
tion of  events  quite  disconnected.  The  head  waters 
take  their  start  at  Marathon ;  Oriental  bubblings 
there  are  in  abundance,  but  no  stream.  •  In  fact  it 
could  not  be  otherwise,  such  is  just  the  character  of 
the  Orient:  to  be  unable  to  create  this  historical  con- 
tinuity. But  the  West  has  it,  and  it  was  won  at  Mara- 
thon, marking  the  greatest  of  all  transitions  both  in  the 
form  and  in  the  substance  of  History.  Moreover  the 
historic  consciousness  now  arises ;  History  for  the  first 
time  is  able  to  record  itself  in  an  adequate  manner.  If 
you  now  scan  him  closely,  you  will  find  that  man  has 
come  to  the  insight  that  he  has  done  in  these  days  some- 
thing worthy  of  being  remembered  forever.  But  where 
is  the  scribe  to  set  it  down?  Behold,  here  he  comes,  old 
Herodotus,  the  Father  of  History,  with  the  first  truly  his- 
torical book,  in  which  he  has  written  together  with  the 
rest  of  the  Persian  War  the  noble  record  of  just  this  great 
Marathonian  deed.  Thus  with  the  worthy  action  appears 
the  man  worthy  of  transmitting  its  glory. 

Still  the  traveler  remains  upon  the  top  of  the  mound, 
asking  himself:  Why  is  Marathon  so  famous?  Other 
battles  have  had  the  same  disparity  of  numbers  between 
the  two  sides,  and  the  same  completeness  of  victory,  while 
they  have  had  the  same  principle  of  freedom  and  nation- 
ality at  stake.  The  battle  of  Morgarten  with  its  1600 
Swiss  against  20,000  Austriaus  is  often  cited,  and  is  some- 
times called  the  Swiss  Marathon.  But  Morgarten  to  the 
world  is  an  obscure  skirmish,  it  is  not  one  of  the  heroic 
deeds  which  determined  a  civilization  ;  it  is  not  one  of  the 
hallowed  symbols  of  the  race.  This  then  must  be  the 


96  A  WALIt  /iV  HELLAS. 

cause :  Greece  has  created  to  a  large  extent  what  we  may 
call  the  symbols  of  our  Western  world  —  the  typical 
deeds,  the  typical  men,  the  typical  forms  which  are  still 
the  ideals  by  which  we  mould  our  works  and  to  which  we 
seek,  partially  at  least,  to  adjust  our  lives. 

Marathon  therefore  stands  for  a  thousand  battles ;  all 
other  struggles  for  freedom,  of  which  our  Occident  has 
been  full,  are  merely  echoes,  repetitions,  imitations  to  a 
certain  extent  of  that  great  primitive  action.  And  Greece 
is  just  the  nation  in  History  which  was  gifted  with  the 
power  of  making  all  that  she  did  a  type  of  its  kind.  The 
idea  of  the  West  she  first  had,  in  its  instinctive  form,  in 
its  primal  enchanting  bloom ;  most  happily  she  embodied 
that  idea  in  her  actions  making  them  into  eternal  things 
of  beauty. 

That  is,  all  the  deeds  of  Greece  are  works  of  Art.  In 
this  sense  the  battle  of  Marathon  may  be  called  a  work  of 
Art.  Grandeur  of  idea  with  perfect  realization  is  the  defi- 
nition of  such  a  work,  and  is  that  quality  which  elevates 
the  person  who  can  rightly  contemplate  it  into  true  in- 
sight. It  fills  the  soul  of  the  beholder  with  views  of  the 
new  future  world  and  makes  him  for  a  time  the  sharer  of 
its  fruits.  Marathon  is  only  that  single  wonderful  event, 
yet  it  is  symbolical  of  all  that  are  to  come  after  it  —  you 
may  say,  embraces  them  all ;  it  tells  the  race  for  the  first 
time  what  the  race  can  do,  giving  us  a  new  hope  and  a 
new  vision.  So  indeed  does  every  great  work  of  Art  and 
every  great  action ;  but  this  is  the  grand  original,  it  is  the 
prophecy  of  the  future  standing  there  at  the  opening  of 
History,  telling  us  what  we  too  may  become,  imparting  to 
us  at  this  distance  of  time  a  fresh  aspiration. 

One  step  further  let  us  push  this  thought  till  it  mirror 
itself  clearly  and  in  completeness.  The  Athenians  were 
not  only  doers  of  beautiful  deeds,  they  were  also  the 
makers  of  beautiful  things  to  represent  the  same  —  they 
were  artists.  Not  only  a  practical,  but  an  equal  theoretic 
greatness  was  theirs ;  in  no  people  that  has  hitherto  ap- 
peared were  the  two  primal  elements  of  Human  Spirit, 
Will  and  Intelligence,  blended  in  such  happy  harmony; 
here,  as  in  all  their  other  gifts  there  was  no  overbalancing, 


MARATHON.  97 

but  a  symmetry  which  becomes  musical.  They  first  made 
the  deed  the  type  of  all  deeds,  made  it  a  Marathon ;  then 
they  embodied  it  in  an  actual  work  of  Art.  They  were 
not  merely  able  to  enact  the  great  thought,  but  also  to 
put  it  into  its  true  outward  form,  to  be  seen  and  admired 
of  men.  Their  action  was  beautiful,  often  supremely 
beautiful,  —  but  that  was  not  enough ;  they  turned  around 
after  having  performed  it,  and  rescued  it  from  the  moment 
of  time  in  which  it  was  born  and  in  which  it  might  perish, 
and  then  made  it  eternal  in  marble,  in  color,  in  prose,  in 
verse. 

Thus  we  can  behold  it  still.  On  the  temple  of  Wingless 
Victory  at  Athens  is  to  be  seen  at  this  day  a  frieze  repre- 
senting the  battle  of  Marathon.  There  is  still  to  be  read 
that  tremendous  war  poem,  the  Persae  of  ^Eschylus,  who 
also  fought  at  Marathon ;  the  white  heat  of  this  first  conflict 
and  of  the  later  Persian  war  can  still  be  felt  in  it  through 
the  intervening  thousands  of  years.  Upon  the  summit  of 
the  mound  where  we  now  stand,  ancient  works  of  Art  were 
doubtless  placed ;  the  stele  inscribed  with  the  names  of  the 
fallen  is  mentioned  by  Pausanias.  Only  a  short  distance 
from  this  tomb  ancient  substructions  can  still  be  observed  ; 
temples  and  shrines,  statues  and  monuments  must  have 
been  visible  here  on  all  sides ;  to  the  sympathetic  eye  the 
whole  plain  will  now  be  whitened  with  shapes  of  marble 
softly  reposing  in  the  sunshine.  The  Greeks  are  indeed 
the  supreme  artistic  people,  they  have  created  the 
beautiful  symbols  of  the  world ;  they  have  furnished  the 
artistic  type  and  have  embodied  it  in  many  forms ;  they 
had  the  ideal  and  gave  to  it  an  adequate  expression. 
Moderns  have  done  other  great  things,  but  this  belongs  to 
the  Greeks. 

So  after  the  mighty  Marathonian  deed  there  is  at  Athens 
a  most  determined  struggle,  a  supreme  necessity  laid  upon 
the  people  to  utter  it  worthily,  to  reveal  it  in  the  forms  of 
Art  and  thus  to  create  Beauty.  Architecture,  Sculpture, 
Poetry  spring  at  once  and  together  to  a  height  which  they 
have  hardly  since  attained,  trying  to  express  the  lofty 
consciousness  begotten  of  heroic  action.  Philosophy  too 
followed ;  but  chief est  of  all,  the  Great  Men  of  the  time, 


98  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

those  plastic  shapes  in  flesh  and  blood,  manifesting  the 
perfect  development  and  harmony  of  mind  and  body,  rise 
in  Olympian  majesty  and  make  the  next  hundred  years 
after  the  battle  the  supreme  intellectual  birth  of  the 
ages ;  —  and  all  because  the  Gods  fought  along  at  Mara- 
thon and  must  thereafter  be  revealed. 

But  let  us  descend  from  this  height,  for  we  cannot  stay 
up  here  all  day  —  let  us  go  down  from  the  mound  resum- 
ing our  joyous  sauntering  occupation,  let  our  emotions, 
still  somewhat  exalted,  flow  down  quietly  and  mingle  once 
more  with  the  soft  pellucid  Marathonian  rill.  The  declining 
sun  is  warning  us  that  we  have  spent  the  greater  part  of  a 
day  in  wandering  over  the  plain  and  in  sitting  on  the  shore 
and  the  tumulus.  Let  us  still  trace  the  bed  of  the  river 
up  from  the  swamp ;  everywhere  along  its  bank  and  in  its 
channel  can  be  seen  fragments  of  edifices.  Here  are  an- 
cient bricks  with  mortar  still  clinging  to  them ;  there  is  the 
drum  of  a  column  lying  in  the  sand,  half-buried ;  pieces 
of  ornamented  capitals  look  up  at  you  from  the  ground 
with  broken  smiles.  Remains  of  a  wall  of  carefully  hewn 
stone  speak  of  a  worthy  superstructure  ;  the  foundation 
of  a  temple  of  Bacchus  was  discovered  here  a  few  years 
ago,  together  with  a  curious  inscription  still  preserved  in 
the  town.  The  fragments  scattered  along  and  in  the 
channel  for  half  a  mile  or  more  tell  of  the  works  once 
erected  on  this  spot  to  the  Heroes  and  Gods  of  the  plain, 
and  which  were  things  of  beauty.  The  traveler  will  seek 
to  rebuild  this  group  of  shrines  and  temples,  each  in  its 
proper  place  and  with  suitable  ornament ;  he  will  fill  them 
with  white  images,  with  altars  and  tripods ;  he  will  call 
up  the  surging  crowd  of  merry  Greek  worshipers  passing 
from  spot  to  spot  at  some  festival. 

As  one  walks  slowly  through  the  fields  in  the  pleasant 
sun,  a  new  delight  comes  over  him  at  the  view  of  the  flow- 
ers of  Marathon.  Everywhere  they  are  springing  up  over 
the  plain,  though  it  be  January  still  —  many  of  them  and 
of  many  kinds,  daisies,  dandelions,  and  primroses  —  look- 
ing a  little  different  from  what  they  do  at  home,  yet  full 
as  joyous.  The  most  beautiful  is  a  kind  of  poppy  un- 
known to  me  elsewhere ;  so  let  me  call  it  the  Marathoniau 


MARATHON.  99 

poppy.  In  most  cases  it  wraps  its  face  in  a  half-closed 
calyx,  as  the  Greek  maiden  covers  forehead  and  chin 
in  her  linen  veil;  still  you  can  look  down  into  the 
hood  of  leaves  and  there  behold  sparkling  dark  eyes. 
Some  of  the  flowers,  however,  are  entirely  open,  some  only 
in  bud  yet ;  then  there  is  every  variety  of  color,  red, 
purple,  and  blue,  with  infinite  delicate  shadiugs.  One 
tarries  among  them  and  plays  after  having  gone  through 
the  earnest  battle ;  he  will  stoop  down  and  pluck  a  large 
handful  of  them  in  order  to  arrange  them  in  groups 
passing  into  one  another  by  the  subtlest  hues.  So,  after 
being  in  such  high  company,  one  gladly  becomes  for  a 
time  a  child  once  more  amid  the  Marathonian  poppies. 

If  it  were  in  me,  I  would  like  to  manifest  a  little  senti- 
ment over  the  name  of  the  flower  in  modern  Greek.  It  is 
called  loulouthi  —  the  most  beautiful  word  for  a  beautiful 
thing  that  I  know  of  in  any  language,  particularly  if  it  be 
spoken  low  from  tender  lips  and  be  reached  by  gentle 
fingers  from  bosom  throbbing  visibly  faster.  The  ancient 
Greek  word  was  anthos;  herein  the  voice  of  the  daughter 
far  surpasses  that  of  the  mother,  to  my  ear  at  least. 
And  there  are  other  names  in  Modern  Greek  of  which  the 
same  complimentary  thing  can  be  said,  but  there  are 
some  designations  concerning  which  just  the  opposite 
must  be  affirmed.  At  the  mention  of  that  word  loulouthi, 
as  I  recollect,  the  face  of  the  speaker  lights  up,  the  eye 
kindles,  the  voice  grows  softer,  indeed  the  whole  appear- 
ance is  transformed,  while  the  image  of  the  thing  and  the 
music  of  the  word  unite  in  producing  one  delightful  melody 
in  the  soul.  Such  are  my  associations  with  the  name  that 
it  speaks  of  green  fields,  and  wavy  slopes,  of  transparent 
rills  running  -through  olive  orchards,  with  the  song  of 
maidens  gathering  the  fruit,  all  in  Greek  sunshine  — 
making  together  a  harmony  which  seems  to  be  uttered 
only  by  that  one  word — loulouthi. 

Out  of  the  field  of  poppies  I  pass  into  the  narrow  neck 
which  led  me  early  this  morning  from  the  village  into  the 
plain.  As  I  turn  back  and  look  again  at  those  lunar- 
shaped  hills,  they  seem  to  glance  more  fiercely  than  ever 
towards  the  East,  inviting  the  foe  into  their  retreating 


100  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

folds  in  order  to  envelop  and  crush  him.  The  first 
shadow  of  evening  lies  upon  the  plain  ;  the  conifer  towers 
up  in  the  middle  of  the  level  expanse  ;  it  is  still  the  sentinel 
standing  there,  now  more  deeply  muffled  in  his  war-cloak, 
but  looking  out  watchfully  upon  the  sea  as  if  the  enemy 
were  yet  expected  there  and  he  was  ready  to  shout  the 
warning  to  the  hills.  The  mound,  too,  can  be  seen  in  the 
distance,  slightly  swelling  above  the  surface  of  the  plain, 
but  soon  its  outline  has  mingled  with  the  shadows.  After 
going  forward  a  little  further  I  turn  around  once  more 
and  look,  it  is  the  last  view  of  the  plain  of  Marathon  — 
I  bid  it  good-bye  and  resolutely  set  my  face  in  the  other 
direction. 

At  the  entrance  to  the  village  I  met  the  schoolmaster, 
cordial  as  ever,  and  apparently  waiting  for  my  return.  I 
asked  him  to  take  me  to  the  school- house,  though  the 
school  had  been  dismissed  an  hour  or  more.  It  was  not 
a  palace,  yet  it  was  one  of  the  better  houses  of  the  place ; 
pupils'  benches  were  very  low,  teacher's  desk  very  high. 
As  you  pick  up  a  text-book  you  will  find  essentially  the 
ancient  idiom  written  in  the  ancient  letters ;  it  were  not 
hard  to  imagine  some  old  Greek  pedagogue  trouncing  his 
boys  on  the  spot.  The  youth  of  the  village  can  still  read 
of  the  great  actions  here  in  the  same  tongue  in  which  they 
were  first  recorded  —  the  great  actions  performed  upon 
this  soil  by  men  whom  the  Greek  people  still  delight  to 
call  their  ancestors.  Yet  when  I  asked  the  schoolmaster 
whether  he  had  ever  read  Herodotus'  account  of  the  bat- 
tle, he  replied  that  he  had  not.  But  he  had  written 
poetry,  like  some  other  schoolmasters,  and  he  began  to 
recite  me  his  verses.  Great  pleasure  it  gave  to  see  that 
the  Muses  still  continue  to  hover  delightfully  around 
Marathon. 

As  I  come  out  of  the  school-house  in  the  late  dusk  of  the 
evening,  large  fires  are  blazing  up  at  various  points  on 
the  mountains.  One  thinks  of  those  ancient  war-signals 
that  leaped  from  peak  to  peak  rousing  the  people  to  re- 
sist the  invader.  Now  it  denotes  the  presence  of  a  dif- 
ferent race  —  the  Wallachian  shepherd  who  has  driven  in 
his  herd  and  kindled  his  camp-fire  around  which  he  is 


MAEATHON.  101 

to  repose  for  the  night.  It  is  quite  chilly,  while  the  day 
has  been  very  agreeable  on  account  of  the  sunshine ;  I 
would  not  like  to  be  in  his  place,  though  yesterday  even- 
ing I  thought  that  I  might  have  to  seek  his  company  with 
the  warmth  of  his  fire  and  of  his  bed  of  leaves.  Under 
the  almond  tree  the  Didaskali  walks  with  me  in  pleasant 
chat,  the  tender  almond  blossoms  of  mid-winter  drooping 
over  our  heads  in  the  soft  twilight. 

I  come  back  to  the  wineshop  feeling  as  if  I  had  fought 
a  day  at  Marathon  —  wearied,  yet  full  of  triumphant  joy 
like  a  returning  soldier.  After  supper  my  audience  was 
again  before  me,  ready  for  a  speech  which  I  did  not 
make  ;  but  they  were  equally  eager  to  hear  strange  stories 
from  the  other  world,  whose  inhabitant  in  their  presence 
they  curiously  gazed  upon.  One  of  the  Albanians,  ob- 
serving that  I  talked  French  with  the  schoolmaster  and 
Greek  with  the  rest  of  them,  while  I  said  that  my  native 
tongue  was  English,  asked  me  how  many  languages  I 
knew.  I  gave  him  the  number  with  which  I  had  more  or 
less  occupied  myself  at  different  times  of  my  life,  when 
he  crossed  himself  on  his  breast  rapidly,  took  off  his  head- 
kerchief,  and  made  a  long  profound  bow,  muttering  a 
prayer  not  to  me  but  to  the  Virgin,  as  I  understood  him. 
What  he  meant  by  all  this  ceremony,  I  do  not  know ;  but 
I  imagine  that  he  only  intended  to  pay  his  respects  to 
what  he  considered  the  biggest  fib  he  had  ever  heard  in 
his  life.  I  do  not  propose  to  repeat  to  you  the  number 
which  I  mentioned,  lest  you  may  go  through  with  some 
gesticulations  like  the  Albanian. 

The  Papas,  that  long-haired  Achaean,  was  also  on 
hand,  and  again  introduced  the  subject  of  baptism,  most 
discordant  theme  at  Marathon.  I  shifted  quickly  to  the 
answer  of  another  question  which  led  me  to  tell  of  the 
city  where  I  lived ;  —  St.  Louis  among  her  other  virtues 
is  capable  of  being  translated  into  tolerable  Greek.  I 
spoke  of  her  commerce,  of  her  great  river,  of  heT  rail- 
roads with  their  enormous  distances  yet  speedy  transit.  I 
spoke  of  her  population,  now  a  tragic  theme,  alas !  too 
deep  for  tears.  Five  hundred  thousand  at  least  she  had, 
I  said,  and  I  do  not  believe  that  I  stopped  there.  Little 


102  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

did  I  then  think  that  a  plague  would  so  soon  sweep  over 
our  fair  city,  a  plague  worse  than  war,  worse  than  cholera, 
and  at  one  fell  swoop  would  carry  off  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands of  our  best  citizens — that  plague  of  a  census. 
Utter  astonishment  there  was  on  those  Albanian  faces, 
but  the  ideas  must  have  been  vague,  for  one  of  the  men 
asked  me  whether  Greenland  was  near  my  city  —  where- 
at the  schoolmaster  sharply  reproved  the  questioner.  But 
for  many  minutes  I  continued  the  encomiastic  vein,  and  I 
cannot  but  think  that  Agios  Loudophikus  will  remain  in 
memory  a  little  while  at  Marathon.  Such  was  then,  the 
bright  vision  of  our  home,  beheld  in  the  far  distance 
through  Marathonian  gleams. 

But  will  this  city  ever  mean  to  the  world  the  thousandth 
part  of  what  Marathon  means  ?  Will  it  ever  make  a  banner 
under  which  civilization  will  march  ?  Will  it  ever  create  a 
symbol  which  nations  will  contemplate  as  a  thing  of  beauty 
and  as  a  hope-inspiring  prophecy  of  their  destiny?  Will 
it  rear  any  men  to  be  exemplars  for  the  race  ?  Alas !  no 
such  man  has  she  yet  produced,  very  little  sign  of  such 
things  is  here  at  present;  we  are  not  a  symbol-making 
people,  do  not  know  nor  care  what  that  means ;  our  am- 
bition is  to  make  canned  beef  for  the  race  —  and  to  cor- 
rect the  census.  St.  Louis  has  some  fame  abroad  as  a 
flour  market,  but  she  is  likely  to  be  forgotten  by  ungrate- 
ful man  as  soon  as  he  has  eaten  his  loaf  of  bread  or  can 
get  it  from  elsewhere.  A  great  population  she  has  doubt- 
less, greater  than  Athens  ever  had ;  but  I  can  not  see, 
with  the  best  good-will,  that  in  the  long  run  there  is  much 
difference  between  the  350,000  who  are  here  and  the 
150,000  who  are  not,  but  were  supposed  to  be.  Marathon 
river  is  often  a  river  without  water,  but  will  turbid  Mis- 
sissippi with  her  thousands  of  steamboats  —  stop!  this 
strain  is  getting  discordant,  at  Marathon  should  be  heard 
no  dissonance,  least  of  all  the  dissonance  of  despair.  Yes, 
there  is  hope ;  while  the  future  lasts  —  and  it  will  be  a 
long  time  before  that  ceases  —  there  is  hope.  The  Mara- 
thonian catabothron  is  certain  to  rise  here  yet,  with  many 
other  catabothrons  and  form  with  native  rivers  a  new 
stream  unheard  of  in  the  history  of  the  world.  Who  of 


FROM  MARATHON  TO  MARCOPOULO.     103 

us  has  not  some  such  article  of  faith?  When  this  valley 
has  its  milliard  of  human  beings  in  throbbing  activity  over 
its  surface,  we,  all  of  us  I  doubt  not,  shall  look  back  from 
some  serene  height  and  behold  them ;  we  shall  then  see 
that  so  many  people  have  created  their  beautiful  symbol. 


F.  FROM  MARATHON  TO  MARCOPOULO. 

The  first  stage  of  my  trip  was  now  accomplished. 
When  I  left  Athens  on  foot,  you  will  recollect  that  I  was 
not  certain  of  reaching  Marathon  ;  but  Marathon  now  lies 
behind  me  a  conquered  territory,  and  I  am  resolved  to 
push  forward  to  some  other  destination ;  where  it  is,  I  do 
not  exactly  know,  but  I  am  going  to  follow  the  image. 
Up  the  Euripus  lies  Aulis,  the  port  where  the  hosts  of 
Agamemnon  embarked  for  Troy;  perchance  some  an- 
cient shapes  may  still  haunt  the  spot ;  thither  accordingly 
let  us  turn  our  steps.  It  will  be  a  fair  walk  of  two  days  ; 
at  the  end  of  the  first  day  is  a  convenient  town  called 
Marcopoulo,  where  there  is  reported  to  be  a  khan  or 
Greek  inn.  Aristides,  the  merchant,  is  going  part  of  the 
way ;  him  we  shall  accompany  with  fresh  delight. 

So  favorable  had  the  trip  been  thus  far  that  all  thought 
of  danger  from  brigands  had  quietly  passed  out  of  mind. 
There  was  an  unconscious  assurance  on  every  side  that 
the  country  was  perfectly  safe ;  people  were  seen  at  work 
everywhere,  aud  people  who  work  are  not  robbers  and 
will  not  tolerate  robbery.  Men  were  manifestly  the  same 
here  as  in  other  parts  of  the  world  — just  as  honest  and 
just  as  orderly ;  it  would  have  been  a  contemptible  piece 
of  cowardice  to  have  felt  insecure  any  longer. 

A  little  after  daylight  I  rose  —  daylight  does  not  come 
too  early  at  this  season  —  and  took  my  position  before 
the  wineshop,  observing  the  people  pass  to  their  labor  in 
the  fields.  All  were  hastening  toward  the  plain  —  men, 
women,  and  children  ;  it  was  the  season  for  trimming  the 
vines  and  picking  the  olives  ;  every  hand  could  find  some- 


104  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

thing  to  do.  The  long-haired  Papas  went  by  with  his 
priming-hook,  leading  a  little  girl  whom  he  in  fatherly 
pride  showed  to  me  as  a  future  Cleopatra ;  his  wife,  with 
a  babe  in  her  arms  and  a  large  grubbing-hoe  on  her 
shoulder,  passed,  adjusting  more  closely  her  head-wrap- 
page as  she  approached.  Also  the  Diknstes  the  village 
judge,  went  by,  bearing  an  implement  of  labor,  dressed 
to-day  in  his  old  clothes,  yet  keeping  on  his  Parisian  hat. 
It  was  a  working  day  at  Marathon. 

Soon  the  merchant  appeared  with  his  store  upon  the 
back  of  the  little  donkey ;  from  the  small  company  which 
had  gathered  before  the  wineshop  we  started  on  our  way 
up  the  valley  amid  friendly  farewells.  The  pleasant 
waters  of  the  Marathonian  river  met  us  with  the  incessant 
babble  of  a  baby,  and  a  baby  river  it  is.  The  village 
slowly  recedes  ;  one  turns  around  often  and  looks  at  the 
houses  lying  along  the  banks  of  the  stream  and  sending 
up  blue  wreaths  of  smoke  in  idyllic  tranquillity.  Beyond 
the  village  let  us  glance  once  more  into  the  plain  where 
the  battle  was  fought,  and  whither  groups  of  peasants 
are  now  moving ;  still  further  beyond  let  us  catch  at  in- 
tervals the  faint  blue  sparkle  of  the  surface  of  the  sea. 
But  look  at  the  skies  yonder ;  clouds  are  gathering  over 
the  plain,  sullen  squadrons  of  them  are  hurrying  along, 
preparing  for  a  Marathonian  battle  of  the  elements.  Yet 
one  must  pass  on,  though  hesitatingly;  there  is  a  peculiar 
emotion  as  one  separates  from  this  historic  spot ;  he  has 
a  feeling  of  weight,  the  weight  of  a  mighty  past,  which, 
though  departed  forever,  still  casts  a  dark  outline  upon 
the  soul ;  it  is  a  monument  whose  very  shadow  is  heavy 
and  burdens  with  its  presence. 

But  not  ancient  story  alone  is  found  here ;  some  traces 
are  left  of  intervening  times.  Yonder  at  the  entrance  to 
the  valley  is  the  ruin  of  a  Turkish  tower  erected  for  the 
purpose  of  watching  this  region.  Is  is  now  wholly  de- 
serted, but  it  stands  as  one  of  the  mementos  of  centuries 
of  hateful  oppression.  The  merchant  tells  me  that  three 
hundred  Greeks  were  murdered  there  during  the  Revolu- 
tion by  the  Turks.  It  is  a  spot  haunted  and  accursed  — 
shunned  by  the  country  peoplo  who  in  that  locality  can 


FROM  MARATHON  TO  MARCOPOULO.     105 

still  hear  at  the  middle  of  the  night  the  curses  of  the 
infidels,  with  the  groans  of  dying  men.  Now  it  is  left  to 
decay  —  the  sign  of  odious  tyranny  which  also  has  fallen 
to  ruin  ;  and  the  prayer  which  the  traveler  puts  up,  as  he 
passes  it,  is,  that  never  again  this  or  any  other  tower  may 
watch  over  an  enslaved  Marathon. 

At  the  turn  of  the  road  the  town  disappears,  though  the 
chattering  stream  is  still  leaping  merrily  along  at  our  side. 
But  the  clouds  which  all  morning  have  threatened  village 
and  plain,  now  overtake  us  and  begin  to  dash  down  large 
drops  of  water  into  our  faces.  This  was  at  first  regard- 
ed merely  as  a  sportive 'sprinkle  from  Zeus,  but  the  mat- 
ter continued  to  grow  more  serious,  and  it  soon  became 
manifest  that  the  God  was  in  earnest,  if  not  in  anger. 
My  great  coat  became  saturated  and  very  heavy,  so  my 
obliging  companion  loosened  from  his  pack  a  shaggy 
capote  and  handed  it  to  me  for  a  change.  This  garment 
is  very  useful  for  such  weather ;  it  is  made  of  goat's  hair 
so  compactly  woven  that  it  sheds  rain.  It  has  joined  to 
it  at  the  top  a  pointed  cap  of  the  same  material,  into 
which  the  head  is  thrust  and  protected.  My  friend  also 
insisted  upon  taking  my  bundle  and  laying  it  on  the  back 
of  that  poor  heavy-laden  donkey,  but  I  protested  and 
continued  to  carry  it  myself. 

I  have  already  told  you  that  my  companion  is  called  by 
the  classic  appellation  of  Aristides  ;  he  informs  me  that  he 
has  an  uncle  at  Oropus,  who  is  a  schoolmaster  by  the 
name  of  Aristoteles.  The  ancient  designations  are  not 
without  their  effect ;  I  rejoice  that  the  Marathonian  name 
Aristides  still  lingers  here  and  seeks  my  company,  having 
returned  to  its  former  haunts  ;  for  ancient  Aristides,  called 
the  Just,  was, in  the  battle  of  Marathon  and  notably  com- 
manded a  detachment  of  Athenians.  So  I  walk  along 
with  a  veritable  Aristides,  talking  Greek  to  me,  and  re- 
vealing, one  will  think,  certain  spiritual  outlines  of  his 
great  namesake.  But  he  is  a  man  of  business  and  herein 
has  a  decided  modern  tinge ;  his  main  characteristic  is 
brightness,  coupled  with  a  youthful  manner  which  is 
peculiarly  Greek,  though  he  be  over  thirty.  A  quick 
nervous  action  accompanies  all  his  movements,  showing 


106  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

a  spirit  restless  and  struggling  with  its  limits ;  of  steady 
patience  he  has  but  little,  particularly  for  his  patience- 
trying  donkey.  His  friendliness  is  unbounded,  yet  not 
ostentatious  ;  he  has  already  invited  me  to  put  up  with 
him  at  Oropus  and  see  his  uncle  Aristoteles  the  school- 
master, who,  he  claims,  is  no  unworthy  representative  of 
the  illustrious  name. 

At  this  point  we  may  notice  an  honorable  trait  of  the 
modern  Greek :  it  is  the  desire  of  inheriting  the  greatness 
as  well  as  the  fame  of  his  ancient  kinsmen.  Hence  these 
names  of  the  distinguished  worthies  of  antiquity  are  very 
common  at  present ;  sometimes  they  make  an  incongruous 
impression.  One  meets  with  Plato  in  baggy  blue  breeches 
and  pointed  red  moccasins  carrying  greasy  oil-skins ;  one 
beholds  Demosthenes  in  fez  and  fustanella  belaboring 
his  refractory  mule ;  in  a  country  town  I  saw  two  women 
engaged  in  furious  combat,  using  their  distaffs  as 
weapons  —  they  were  Penelope  and  Clytemnestra. 

Also  my  friend  Aristides,  like  his  ancient  namesake  is 
a  true  patriot  with  a  keen  insight  into  the  evils  and 
dangers  of  Greece.  The  smalluess  of  her  territory,  her 
dependence  on  the  whims  and  interests  of  the  Great 
European  Powers,  her  lack  of  internal  development,  her 
manifold  governmental  ills  are  subjects  of  the  sharpest 
regret ;  still,  he  has  hope  and  thinks  that  in  the  fifty  years 
of  independence  she  has  done  wonders.  Just  at  present 
the  political  outlook  seems  gloomy ;  he  feels  certain  that 
Turkey  will  not  yield  the  limits  ceded  by  the  Treaty  of 
Berlin.  "Patience,  oh  just  Aristides!"  is  all  that  the 
sympathizing  stranger  can  say  to  him,  "  far  more  difficult 
things  have  been  accomplished  even  in  our  day. ' '  Whereat 
with  dark  eyes  brimming  and  with  a  nervous  twitch  he 
pokes  his  stick  into  the  sides  of  the  donkey,  which  has 
taken  advantage  of  the  interesting  conversation  to  come 
to  a  full  pause. 

Nor  should  we  pass  by  this  occasion  without  noticing 
another  leading  trait  of  the  modern  Greek.  Not  only 
does  he  look  up  to  the  ancient  worthies  of  his  nation  and 
seek  to  inherit  their  celebrity  and  culture,  but  he  has  also 
a  modern  Idea,  which  constitutes  the  very  marrow  of  his 


FROM  MARATHON  TO  MARCOPOULO.     107 

being.  That  Idea  is  the  enfranchisement  and  regeneration 
of  the  entire  Greek  race  ;  in  fact,  the  whole  Orient  is  to 
receive  a  new  birth  through  the  new  Greece.  The  Greek 
Revolution  failed  to  emancipate  the  Greek ;  only  a  little 
over  one  million  out  of  twelve  were  then  freed.  "  But," 
says  Aristides,  "  we  won  then  by  force  of  arms  ;  now  we 
shall  conquer  by  intelligence.  We  intend  to  kindle  such 
a  light  here  in  the  East  that  the  Turk  will  have  to  get  out 
of  its  glare.  Thessaly  is  already  ours  by  the  consent  of 
Europe ;  then  Macedonia  will  follow ;  Constantinople  is 
the  goal  and  we  shall  soon  be  there  in  our  ancient  im- 
perial seat.  To-day  our  university  educates  the  brain  of 
the  Turkish  empire ;  those  barbarians  would  be  helpless 
without  Greek  intellect.  Yes,  the  Orient  must  become 
Hellenic  again,  and  Constantinople  is  to  be  the  capital." 

Such  is  the  great  modern  Idea  of  which  our  modern 
Aristides  is  a  most  zealous  expounder.  But  it  is  just  this 
Idea  which  Western  Europe  from  various  causes  has  re- 
fused to  accept.  England,  in  particular,  has  set  herself 
against  the  hopes  of  a  whole  race  allied  in  religion  and 
civilization,  in  favor  of  the  barbarous  Ottoman.  Assuredly 
the  Oriental  policy  of  England  has  been  a  mistake ;  it  js 
always  a  mistake  to  run  counter  to  the  struggles  of  a 
great  people  for  enfranchisement  and  unity.  Yet  such 
has  been  hitherto  the  attitude  of  England  in  the  East.  If 
she  had  put  herself  at  the  head  of  this  strong  national 
aspiration  instead  of  stifling  it,  the  vexed  Oriental  ques- 
tion would  now  have  been  solved,  or  have  looked  to  a 
happy  solution  in  the  near  future. 

Indeed,  upon  an  inspection  of  some  of  these  Oriental 
transactions  of  the  English,  one  is  inclined  to  ask  them 
strange  questions  ;  among  others  this  one  obtrudes  itself 
into  the  soul :  Do  you  then  believe  that  there  is  a  God  in 
the  universe  V  If  there  be,  he  is  with  the  people  who  are 
with  deepest  longing  and  agony  struggling  for  light  and 
freedom,  however  awkward  and  absurd  these  attempts 
may  be.  England  does  not  believe  in  the  deity  of  igno- 
rance and  slavery ;  yet  she  persists  in  doing  that  which 
she  does  not  allow  her  God  to  do.  She  preaches  at  home 
the  divinity  of  liberty  and  humanity,  and  will  defend  the 


108  A   WALK  I.V  HELLAS 

same  with  the  last  drop  of  English  blood  ;  but  abroad  she 
upholds  the  Mahommedan  Tartar  against  the  Christian 
Greek.  Strange  that  England  has  still  any  faith  in  a 
God.  Yet  she  is  to-day  the  most  religious  country  in 
Europe,  it  is  said ;  her  upper  classes  are  often  declared 
to  be  the  only  upper  classes  who  are  generally  imbued 
with  a  strong  feeling  of  religion.  The  Englishman  has 
certainly  a  high  conception  both  of  deity  and  humanity ; 
he  would  scout  a  God  who  could  create  the  institution  of 
slavery  or  make  heaven  a  harem.  But  looking  at  the 
Eastern  question  and  its  history  can  any  one  doubt  that 
he  will  retain  his  fellowman  in  bondage  to  strangers  in 
faith  and  race,  that  he  will  give  himself  privileges  whieh 
he  refuses  to  his  God?  The  worship  of  the  highest,  most 
universal  type  ought  to  produce  the  highest,  most  universal 
conduct ;  but  it  must  be  set  down  as  characteristic  of  En- 
gland, and  also  of  New  England,  indeed  of  the  whole 
Anglo-Saxon  consciousness,  to  divorce  speculation  from 
action,  to  nurse  conviction  with  effeminate  fondness  just 
one  day  of  the  week,  then  carefully  to  lock  it  up  the 
remaining  six  as  something  too  tender  and  impracticable 
for  daily  use  in  this  exceedingly  practical  world  of  ours. 
So  the  Greek  Idea  is  theoretically  very  fine,  even  merits 
our  sympathy,  but  it  is  not  practical.  Ah  yes ;  what  we 
worship  as  truth  in  God,  we  put  down  as  a  lie,  or  at  least 
as  a  delusion,  in  Man. 

Who,  therefore,  can  blame  Aristides  if  he  has  no  love 
for  England?  I  believe  that  he  has  a  right  to  his  indigna- 
tion ;  therein  many  an  Englishman,  I  would  fain  believe 
the  majority,  would  join  him  and  me.  So  we  go  on  dis- 
cussing in  the  rain  the  Great  Idea,  which  is  the  matter  al- 
ways uppermost  in  the  heart  of  the  Greek,  and  which,  I 
imagine,  he  pours  out  more  freely  to  an  American,  who 
can  not  help  being  sympathetic.  But  from  the  Great 
Idea  he  suddenly  falls  to  punching  the  donkey,  which 
takes  many  a  little  liberty  during  the  time  we  are  ab- 
sorbed in  conversation,  and  will  not  suffer  us  to  forget  its 
important  presence. 

This  is  the  picture  which  I  would  have  you  look  at  with 
a  little  interest :  two  persons  in  shaggy  capotes  are  walk- 


FROM  MARATHON   TO  MAHCOPOULO.  109 

ing  up  the  valley  of  a  small  stream,  amid  the  gray  drizzle  ; 
they  often  slip  on  the  wet  stones  with  their  soggy  shoes 
which  are  continually  getting  broader  and  threaten  to  go 
to  pieces ;  they  slowly  wind  around  in  the  tortuous  mule- 
path  through  the  many  folds  of  the  hills  covered  every- 
where with  underbrush  and  rocks ;  their  two  voices  can 
always  be  heard,  in  question  and  response,  wandering 
through  the  deserted  glens  which,  affrighted  at  times,  send 
back  a  fleeting  answer ;  one  of  the  voices  is  strewing  curi- 
ous fragments  of  broken  Greek  through  all  these  solitudes, 
to  the  repeated  horror  of  fair  nymph  Echo.  Clouds  at 
intervals  descend  to  the  earth  and  enwrap  the  two  pedes- 
trains  in  a  moist  sheet  of  mist ;  then  they  rise  again,  hav- 
ing discharged  their  watery  burden,  and  for  a  moment 
break  into  silvery  translucent  fleeces  behind  which  gleams 
the  Sun,  whom  they  now  promise  to  unveil;  but  there 
follows  a  new  gathering  of  the  cloudy  squadrons  over 
Marathon,  which  pass  heavily  above  and  throw  down  a 
pitiless  shower.  Aristides  turning  nervously  around  and 
looking  up  at  the  skies,  sees  the  fresh  storm  coming;  get- 
ting in  a  hurry  he  pokes  the  donkey. 

And  that  donkey,  the  third  of  our  goodly  company, 
must  not  be  omitted.  Patiently  it  steps  along  before  us, 
selecting  always  the  securest  way  through  the  slippery 
rocks,  while  we  blindly  follow.  Not  infrequently  it  will 
prick  up  its  long  ears  and  look  intelligently  at  some  object 
by  the  side  of  the  road,  then  it  will  calmly  lay  them  back 
at  a  change  of  thought.  That  play  of  the  donkey's  ears  — 
backwards  and  forwards  —  what  is  the  meaning  of  it? 
That  were  a  new  and  curious  subject  of  speculation  ;  to 
me  it  is  one  of  the  great  mysteries  of  creation.  Once  he 
turned  around  his  big  head  and  with  jeering  eye  looked  at 
us  engaged  in  animated  talk,  then  mingled  a  loud  bray 
with  the  Great  Idea ;  so  the  two  notes  went  echoing  to- 
gether over  the  hills. 

The  donke}'  is  small,  not  much  larger  than  a  Newfound- 
land dog,  but  he  is  every  inch  —  a  donkey.  He  has  a  sort 
of  dry  humor  in  him  which  always  makes  him  a  good  com- 
panion. Imperturbable,  almost  indifferent  to  blows,  in 
lead-colored  coat  of  hair  he  plods  on,  playing  backwards 


110  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

and  forwards  his  ears,  having  some  secret  inner  entertain- 
ment all  to  himself.  He  is  an  indispensable  beast  of  bur- 
den mid  these  stony  mountain  paths  ;  no  horse  could  ever 
travel  over,  this  road  with  safety.  The  donkey  is  not 
rapid,  but  he  sets  those  little  round  hoofs  of  his  down  on 
the  earth  with  a  swiftness  and  dexterity  that  make  his 
four  feet  twinkle  like  so  many  dancing  stars.  See  how 
minciugly  he  treads,  picking  out  the  way  so  daintily, 
never  making  a  false  step  —  a  solid  joy  to  the  sympathetic 
companion  behind  him.  But  at  times  he  unaccountably 
stops  right  in  the  road,  stops  us,  stops  the  conversation ; 
then  comes  another  fateful  punch  from  the  hand  of 
Aristides. 

On  the  back  of  the  little  animal  is  the  store  of  Aristides, 
who  has  just  supplied  the  women  of  Marathon  with  dry 
goods,  in  return  for  which  he  takes  the  fruits  of  the  earth  ; 
he  has  now  a  large  quantity  of  almonds  in  an  enormous 
package  lashed  to  the  crupper  of  the  donkey.  Thus  the 
greater  portion  of  internal  trade  is  carried  on  through 
these  regions.  The  traveling  merchant  is  one  of  the  main 
figures  in  the  social  organism.  He  is  usually  capable  and 
well-informed ;  he  scatters  not  only  goods  but  ideas, 
especially  the  Great  Idea.  He  knows  every  body,  he 
brings  information  to  these  villages  in  regard  to  the  latest 
diplomatic  relations  between  Greece  and  Turkey ;  he 
scores  early  every  approach  toward  Constantinople. 
New  thoughts,  new  hopes,  new  political  catchwords  he 
sets  in  circulation  among  the  people,  all  of  which  in  their 
own  good  time  will  bear  fruit ;  but  his  chief  jet  self-im- 
posed duty  is  to  be  the  unflinching  advocate  of  the  Great 
Idea.  Sharp  at  a  bargain  this  Greek  trader  is  without  a 
doubt ;  but  my  Aristides,  I  do  not  believe,  is  dishonest, 
he  is  just,  I  affirm,  notwithstanding  the  bad  name  which 
many  people  give  the  Greeks.  Certainly  he  is  very 
friendly,  and  I  should  call  him  tender-hearted,  were  it 
not  for  the  way  in  which  he  pokes  his  stick  into  the 
withers  of  our  third  companion,  the  donke}7.  This  fact  I 
have  repeated  to  you  before,  I  believe ;  still  my  repeti- 
tions are  scarce  as  one  in  a  hundred  to  the  thrusts  of 
Aristides. 


FROM  MARATHON   TO  MAECOPOULO.  Ill 

Down  comes  a  heavy  shower  again  ;  we  pass  through  a 
wild  mountain  glen  in  which  is  situated  an  old  lonely  mill 
with  mossy  wheel ;  we  reach  a  grove  of  beautiful  plane- 
trees  and  ford  the  Marathonian  brook,  now  somewhat 
swollen  with  the  rains.  In  this  secluded  spot  a  man 
dressed  in  white  fustanella  approaches  and  talks  with  us ; 
Aristides  tells  me  that  it  is  a  neighboring  land-owner.  I 
was  surprised  to  find  in  him  a  person  of  an  exquisitely 
refined  address,  with  an  ease  and  grace  worthy  of  the 
most  cultivated  society.  The  wild  scenery  around  us  was 
in  marked  contrast  to  his  courtly  manners.  He  inquired 
the  news,  was  deeply  interested  in  politics,  as  all  Greeks 
are ;  on  learning  my  nationality  he  spoke  in  friendly 
terms  of  America,  and  at  parting  he  put  the  two  latest 
newspapers  from  Athens  into  my  hands.  His  polished 
address  seemed  like  a  brilliant  gem  lost  amid  those  soli- 
tudes ;  I  would  have  picked  up  the  gem  and  brought  it 
along,  if  I  had  been  able. 

Still  Aristides  and  myself  converse,  walking  defiantly 
through  the  passing  showers,  and  many  are  the  things 
which  he  tells  me.  His  characterization  of  the  various 
peoples  of  Greece  is  good  and  trustworthy,  for  it  is  the  re- 
sult of  long  intercourse.  Implicitly  he  places  the  Greek 
first  of  all  races ;  he  is  himself  of  pure  Greek  blood  and 
takes  pride  in  his  lineage.  He  says  that  there  are  very  few 
genuine  Greeks  in  these  parts,  that  there  are  more  at 
Oropus,  his  town,  than  elsewhere.  He  considered  the 
Wallachians  to  be  a  more  capable  people  than  the  Alban- 
ians, though  he  thought  well  of  the  latter ;  for  Alban- 
ians, besides  making  the  best  soldiers  in  the  East,  had 
turned  out  excellent  scholars,  philologists  and  theo- 
logians. 

I  liked  the  talk  of  Aristides  much  ;  there  was  in  it  no 
excess  of  any  kind,  it  had  the  Greek  moderation  as  well 
as  the  Greek  aspiration  after  an  ideal ;  his  condemnatory 
judgments  of  men  and  things  would  always  in  the  end 
brighten  into  hopefulness.  Only  concerning  a  very  few 
of  the  country  women  in  these  regions,  his  report,  given  in 
response  to  a  question  of  mine,  was  not  favorable.  But 
his  statement  in  regard  to  the  morals  of  the  Greek  peas- 


112  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS 

antry  in  general  may  be  taken  as  true,  and  coincides  with 
the  declaration  of  many  observers,  that  in  this  respect 
they  are  the  most  exemplary  of  all  peoples  in  Europe. 

At  one  place  he  suddenly  stops,  shouting  a  halt  to  the 
donkey,  which  willingly  obeys.  With  great  deliberation 
reaching  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  he  takes  out  a  pent- 
ari  —  a  coin  worth  not  quite  one  cent  —  and  deposits  it 
in  a  small  square  hole  hewn  into  a  stone  which  stood  at 
the  side  of  the  road.  I  asked  him  what  he  did  that  for? 
He  pointed  to  a  small  dilapidated  building  in  the  distance 
and  said  it  was  for  the  repairs  of  that  church.  The 
offerings  of  the  pious  wayfarers  were  placed  here ;  ac- 
cordingly I  went  up  and  laid  down  my  cent  too,  then 
continued  my  journey,  feeling  much  better,  I  thought. 
There  lie  the  two  cents  exposed  on  the  stone  alongside  of 
the  road,  without  danger,  it  seems,  of  being  pilfered.  I 
thought  to  myself :  Where  in  the  neighborhood  of  my 
town  could  two  cents  lie  exposed  in  that  way  without  be- 
ing snapped  up  by  one  of  her  bank  presidents,  perhaps, 
or  at  least  by  some  ruthless  urchin  who  would  bring  them 
in  all  speed  to  the  nearest  candy  shop  ? 

Then  Aristides  gives  the  donkey  a  smart  poke,  and  we 
are  off  again,  having  performed  our  work  of  charity. 
Not  without  a  happy  sense  of  victory,  not  without  an  in- 
ternal feeling  of  unassailableness  by  the  tempest  do  we 
draw  our  meandering  line  around  the  hills,  through  the 
vales,  over  swollen  brooks,  dashing  into  walls  of  clouds 
and  showers.  At  last  the  storm  gives  up  the  task  of 
subduing  us,  the  squadrons  flee,  the  Sun  bursts  out  of 
the  sky  with  shining  face  and  laughs  in  a  chorus  with  us. 

In  the  meantime  Aristides  becomes  also  more  confld- 
ing ;  he  tells  me  the  story  of  his  courtship  and  marriage  ; 
how  he  fell  in  love  with  a  pair  of  eyes  jet-black  and  of 
infinite  sparkle  but  without  any  money,  though  there  were 
wealthy  brothers;  how  he  succeeded  in  getting  the 
wealthy  brothers  to  give  a  portion  to  the  sister,  3,000 
drachmas —  say  600  dollars  —  cash  ;  how  he  then  pounced 
down  and  carried  off  both  maiden  and  money,  the  lucky 
man !  Thereupon  in  the  pride  of  success  he  embarked  in 
an  unfortunate  speculation,  lost  all,  all  his,  all  hers,  and 


FROM  MARATHON  TO  MARCOPOULO.  113 

more  too,  the  unlucky  man !  Now  the  black  eyes,  no 
longer  so  sparkling  as  they  were,  he  possesses  still,  but 
without  the  beautiful  drachmas  ;  nay,  he  has  in  addition 
two  small  mouths,  making  four  altogether,  which  must 
have  bread.  At  present  he  is  reduced  to  being  a  pedlar, 
to  going  about  the  country  and  selling  by  the  cent's 
worth,  —  it  is  a  lot  too  hard,  too  humiliating!  "Alas! 
Aristides,"  cries  the  condoling  companion  at  his  side, 
"  such  is  the  common  destiny  of  us  all ;  thou  hast  indeed 
seen  better  days,  so  have  I,  so  has  the  donkey." 

But  Aristides  cannot  be  melancholy  for  more  than  a  mo- 
ment, he  always  turns  the  darkest  thoughts  of  the  past  into 
b  tight  gleams  of  hope.  He  is  not  weary  of  life,  far  from 
it ;  nor  does  he  love  his  wife  the  less  because  he  has  lost 
her  money,  as  is  the  case  with  some  men  whom  I  know. 
The  only  failing  I  have  found  in  him  is  the  energy  and 
persistency  with  which  he  punches  the  ribs  of  our  patient 
third  companion,  the  donkey.  The  brave  little  animal 
still  moves  its  ears  backwards  and  forwards  with  a  silent 
humor ;  it  still  trips  along  with  an  inner  complacency, 
although  I  notice  that  with  heavy  burdens  and  bad  roads 
it  is  beginning  to  give  out.  At  last  out  of  so  many  steps 
taken  to-day  it  makes  one  false  step  —  Aristides  and  I 
have  made  a  dozen  such  at  least,  without  any  load,  and 
we  have  slipped  and  slid  quite  to  the  ground  on  the  wet 
stones ;  but  that  one  misstep  brings  it  to  its  knees,  then 
down  prostrate  under  the  superincumbent  weight.  There- 
upon follow  still  sharper  punches  than  ever ;  I  had  to  cry 
out:  "  Be  just,  oh  Aristides,  be  just  even  to  the  donkey ; 
see  what  a  burden  of  yours  it  is  carrying,  think  how 
courageously  it  has  held  out  to-day,  show  yourself  now 
worthy  of  your  great  namesake  ;  be  just." 

So  with  kindly  hands  we  help  up  our  fallen  companion ; 
passing  a  little  hill  we  enter  the  small  hamlet  of  Capandriti 
where  we  hasten  to  take  off  all  his  fardels  and  give  him 
rest.  Then  we  go  into  the  wineshop  and  sit  down  on  the 
bench ;  we  are  still  wet,  but  we  dry  ourselves  with  abun- 
dant draughts  of  the  golden  recinato  —  that  wonderful 
liquid,  which  wets  the  dry  man  and  dries  the  wet  man. 
It  is  already  high  noon ;  we  order  a  dinner  of  eggs  fried 


114  A  WALK  IX  HELLAS. 

in  oil,  and  black  bread  ;  no  Parisian  dinner,  according  to 
my  taste,  ever  equaled  the  luxury  of  that  repast.  There 
are  also  two  merry  Greek  hunters  at  the  wineshop  who 
at  once  take  a  share  in  the  talk  and  in  the  viands. 

Let  us  now  look  at  Aristides  with  our  two  new  associ- 
ates, squatting  at  the  flue  and  making  a  cup  of  coffee. 
Each  of  them  has  a  small  tin  pot,  holding  hardly  as  much 
as  the  ordinary  teacup ;  this  is  filled  with  water  and  shoved 
into  the  coals  by  its  long  handle  till  the  water  boils ;  then 
a  couple  of  spoonfuls  of  coffee  with  some  sugar  is  thrown 
into  it,  when  it  is  shoved  back  into  the  coals  and  brought 
to  a  boil  the  second  time.  Thus  they  squat  there  before 
the  fire,  preparing  their  warm  beverage  and  talking  pol- 
itics. All  Greek  men  do  likewise,  and  indeed  all  Greek 
men  cook,  and  often  cook  well ;  if  the  wife  happens  to  be 
in  the  fields  at  some  task,  the  man  will  go  to  work  and 
get  a  dinner,  and  a  good  one  too.  Many  a  Palicari  have 
I  seen  twirling  before  the  fire  a  spit  laden  with  a  turkey 
or  with  bits  of  meat ;  he  knew  what  he  was  about.  But 
the  coffee  of  Aristides  is  done ;  it  is  not  discolored  with 
milk,  nor  is  it  strained  or  settled ;  he  pours  it  off  into  a 
cup  and  sips  it  with  a  decided  relish.  I  have  already  said 
that  a  cup  of  coffee  of  this  kind,  prepared  by  the  keeper, 
is  usually  sold  for  one  cent  in  the  provinces ;  but  often  it 
is  prepared  by  the  drinker  himself  for  the  sake  of  greater 
economy. 

Such  is  the  picture,  then,  which  the  traveler  will  carry 
away  with  him  from  many  a  hearth  in  this  country :  sev- 
eral men  are  grouped  around  the  fire,  cooking  their  coffee  ; 
each  has  his  long-handled  cup  which  he  manipulates  with 
a  curious  dexterity,  in  the  mean  time  talking  in  animated 
gestures  of  the  Treaty  of  Berlin  or  discussing  the  last 
phase  of  the  Great  Idea.  I  hold  th"at  those  old  fellows, 
politicians  and  even  philosophers,  were  of  a  similar  cast 
and  had  similar  ways.  A  political  ideal  is  still  a  part  of 
the  intellectual  inheritance  of  the  modern  Greek ;  it  be- 
longs to  him  as  much  as  it  did  to  ancient  Plato.  I  should 
say  that  these  people  are  still  the  children,  rustic  though 
genuine  children,  of  the  father  of  the  Platonic  Republic. 
They  have  not  his  notions  exactly,  but  they  are  like  him ; 


FROM  MAKATIlOy   JO  MABC'OPOULO.  115 

they  are  forever  building  the  gorgeous  commonwealth  of 
new  Hellas  in  the  pure  ethereal  blue  of  their  own  heavens. 
What  man  will  not  take  pleasure  in  looking  at  it,  moving 
there  in  the  skies  amid  gold-bordered  clouds  —  will  not 
shout  applause  at  the  lofty  structure  afloat,  crj'ing  out: 
Bring  it  down  to  the  earth  and  set  it  firmly  on  eternal 
rock,  if  ye  can !  Nay,  what  one  of  us  would  not  give,  if 
we  could  only  catch  the  rope,  a  good  pull  to  help  fetch  it 
down  into  solid  reality  ?  Poverty  may  cramp  into  help- 
less fetters,  writers  may  scoff  with  bitter  satire,  the 
Great  Powers  may  violently  repress,  still  the  Greek  is 
going  to  Constantinople,  if  not  by  land,  then  through 
the  air. 

But  alas !  now  I  have  to  part  company  with  the  mer- 
chant Aristides,  who  has  to  attend  to  business,  selling 
his  wares  from  door  to  door  and  haggling  with  the  women 
of  the  village.  I  would  be  glad  to  go  with  him  through 
the  country  here,  which  he  knows  so  well,  if  I  could  wait 
for  him  ;  still  i  have  promised  to  visit  him,  if  convenient, 
at  Oropus,  and  see  the  worthy  schoolmaster  Aristoteles. 
I  have  spoken  so  much  about  Aristides  because  I  believe 
him  to  be  a  typical  man  of  his  class,  being  a  kind  of 
mediatorial  character  among  those  towns  on  his  route, 
and  carrying  on  not  only  a  commercial  but  also  an  intel- 
lectual exchange.  For  he  brings  them  not  goods  alone, 
but  light.  He  may  sometimes  be  made  the  instrument 
of  political  partisanship,  still  every  throb  of  his  heart  beats 
for  his  country.  After  he  had  put  me  into  the  right  road, 
we  parted  with  renewed  hopes  of  seeing  each  other  at 
Oropus. 

So  I  am  alone  again — yet,  I  maintain,  in  good  com- 
pany ;  with  package  slung  over  my  shoulder  and  heavy 
staff  in  hand  I  pass  down  the  road  to  Marcopoulo.  The 
town  is,  according  to  report,  about  three  hours  distant ; 
the  Greeks  measure  distance  by  hours.  The  great  coat 
is  no  longer  wet  and  unwieldy ;  hunger  and  thirst  have 
been  fully  satisfied  ;  the  clouds  above  are  breaking  into 
golden  shreds  which  race  joyously  through  the  sunbeams 
and  attune  the  beholder  to  their  sport ;  with  light-hearted 
buoyancy  he  looks  off  before  himself  up  to  the  green 


116  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

summits  over  which  he  is  to  pass.  This  traveling  in 
Greece  is  of  itself  intoxication,  were  there  no  recinato. 

But  the  sunshine  was  of  short  duration.  Once  more 
the  clouds  began  to  gather  in  heavy  black  masses  and 
dash  against  the  tops  of  the  mountains  ;  then  the  battle 
in  Heaven  opened  with  new  energy.  One  may  well  im- 
agine that  the  scene  was  somewhat  similar  to  that  which 
the  old  Greek  beheld  over  these  ridged  summits  and 
wrought  into  fable ;  it  was  one  form  of  the  combat  be- 
tween the  Giants  and  the  Gods.  Zeus,  the  pure  ethereal 
sky,  Diospiter,  the  father  of  day,  is  surrounded  by  the 
conflict  of  dark,  many-shaped  monsters  —  of  Briareus  the 
hundred-handed,  of  Typhon,  fire-spitting,  reaching  to  the 
skies ;  but  in  the  end  the  father  of  light  sends  them 
down  to  gloomy  Tartarus  and  asserts  anew  his  place  on 
the  sunny  throne  of  Olympus. 

Thus  one  looks  at  the  angry  gathering  of  the  tempest 
with  its  many  shapes  and  transmutations,  and  he  can  not 
help  thinking  that  he  beholds  the  natural  source  of  the 
highest  principle  of  Greek  Mythology  —  the  conflicts  of 
its  supreme  God.  Off  there  in  the  sky,  in  serene  light, 
Zeus  is  seated ;  mostly  he  dwells  in  happy  repose,  but 
sometimes  is  involved  in  dire  struggle  with  the  gloomy 
powers.  To-day  is  one  of  his  gigantic  battles ;  he  is  the 
cloud-compeller,  rejoicing  in  the  swift  lightning,  he  is  the 
heavy  thunderer,  as  the  Iliad  often  calls  him,  indicating 
his  realm  as  well  as  his  origin.  Nature  may  be  taken  at 
this  hour  as  the  symbol  of  conflict  within  itself,  as  a 
mirror  of  all  spiritual  conflicts.  Zeus  is  fighting  the  old 
dark  Gods,  the  mere  demons  of  chaos,  and  will  put  them 
down ;  then  he  will  bring  back  the  light  and  become  the 
deity  of  moral  order,  law,  and  institutions,  such  as  he 
was  worshiped  in  Greece.  Thus  his  conflicts  are  made 
the  types  of  the  conflicts  of  man,  of  struggles  external 
and  internal,  of  revolutions  moral  and  political. 

Greek  Mythology  is  an  utterance,  the  supreme  poetic 
utterance  of  the  race,  taken  from  Nature  directly  and  true 
to  her  in  the  highest  degree,  yet  always  reflecting  therein 
a  spiritual  visage.  Olympus  is  made  up  of  Gods,  who 
from  physical  have  become  also  internal  divinities ;  they 


FROM  MARATHON  TO  MARCOPOULO.  117 

have  been  victorious  over  the  frantic  worship  of  Nature 
whose  deities  now  lie  in  Tartarus,  though  with  many 
rebellious  attempts  to  rise.  So  Apollo  is  still  the  sun, 
was  once  the  outer  sun,  till  he  became  the  inner  and 
brighter  sun,  transferring  his  seat  from  the  East  to  Delphi, 
whither  I  begin  now  to  see  this  path  of  ours  is  tending 
through  many  sinuosities. 

But  we  are  still  here  in  the  mountains  amid  the  un- 
decided battle  of  Zeus ;  in  other  words  it  is  raining,  ruin- 
ing with  pitiless  energy,  as  if  this  solitary  pedestrian  were 
some  hundred-handed  Titan  to  be  swept  down  into  Tar- 
tarus. The  great  coat  has  become  heavier  than  ever ; 
there  is  no  tree  for  shelter,  only  a  thick  growth  of  low 
brushwood  can  be  seen  ;  there  is  not  a  single  farm  house 
for  refuge  along  the  road.  Clouds  collide  and  roll,  like 
two  contending  dragons  twisted  together,  right  over  me, 
throwing  down  their  contents  ;  sometimes  I  can  see  a  short 
distance  before  me,  sometimes  a  mountain  of  vapor  falls 
upon  me  and  cuts  off  all  vision.  Am  I  actually  then 
some  earth-born  Titan,  that  I  arouse  such  anger  in  the 
breast  of  Zeu*s?  The  modest  conclusion  is,  that  I  am 
not,  though  you  may  think  I  am  mounting  up  dizzily  near 
to  his  throne  in  the  clouds. 

But  what  is  that  sound  off  to  one  side,  heard  very  dis- 
tinctly through  the  mist?  It  is  a  human  voice,  and,  as  it 
seems  to  me,  is  an  utterance  of  pain.  What  can  be  the 
matter  ?  I  stop  and  listen,  but  it  ceases ;  then  I  pass  on 
through  the  driving  rain.  But  there !  I  hear  it  again,  off 
to  the  left ;  it  is  a  child's  voice,  a  young  boy's  one  would 
conjecture.  Very  disagreeable  it  is  to  go  out  of  the 
road  ;  yet  that  voice  surely  has  the  tone  of  distress.  So 
I  push  through  the  wet  bushes  in  search  of  it  —  a  most 
uncomfortable'business  in  Greece,  and  savagely  discord- 
ant with  the  Greek  mood.  I  shout,  shout  in  high  Greek 
through  the  storm ;  but  the  piercing  cry  never  seems  to 
penetrate  the  thick  walls  of  vapor  shutting  me  in.  Again 
the  voice  ceases  for  a  time  and  I  return  to  the  beaten 
track. 

I  go  straight  into  a  dense  cloud  which  has  collapsed 
over  the  road ;  this  road  is  now  filled  with  a  little  river 


118  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS, 

through  which  I  wade  up  stream.  Rain,  Rain ;  the  wet 
now  touches  the  skin,  the  great  coat  has  its  full  capacity 
of  water  and  overflows  everywhere  at  the  edges  into  small 
cataracts.  I  stoop  under  a  bush ;  but  what  is  the  use, 
the  bush  is  as  wet  as  I  am,  with  pearly  cascades  spouting 
from  the  tip  of  every  leaf.  Such  is  traveling,  such  the 
traveler ;  but  I  affirm  that  the  Greek  mood  is  not  by  any 
means  drowned  out  of  him,  he  still  has  high  company, 
the  very  highest  —  Jupiter  Tonans  with  the  red  right 
hand  is  his  next  neighbor. 

But  there  is  one  disturbance,  I  hear  again  that  wretched 
voice  which  distresses  me.  Still  I  shall  not  stop ;  one  may 
be  excused  for  not  being  inclined  to  benevolence  with  such 
an  overcoat.  But  the  dolorous  cry  continues,  coming  out  of 
the  mist ;  it  may  be  some  human  being  who  is  worse  off  than 
even  I  am.  So  I  start  after  it  once  more  through  the  drip- 
ping brushwood,  not  at  all  in  a  good  humor  with  the  voice, 
which  is  spoiling  the  Greek  mood  far  more  than  the  showers 
of  Jove.  But  listen!  in  the  opposite  direction  on  the 
right  side  of  the  road  can  be  heard  another  and  similar 
voice  from  the  vaporous  distance  ;  it  has  the  same  wail,  it 
may  be  an  answer  to  the  first.  Are  these  people  then  all 
in  grief,  shepherds  perchance,  wailing  over  the  mountains? 
It  is  impossible  to  help  so  many  of  them,  therefore  the 
just  tourist  will  lean  toward  impartiality  and  help  none  — 
so  onward  through  the  falling  water- walls!  But  the 
mystery  of  those  voices  coming  out  of  the  fog  —  what  can 
it  mean  ?  what  can  it  mean  ? 

Still  up  the  mountain  the  road  passes,  higher  and 
higher ;  now  the  heavy  rain  slackens  and  one  comes  into 
the  region  of  pure  fog  with  a  continuous  light  drizzle. 
One  winds  around  peaks  and  gets  faint  views  into  tre- 
mendous chasms  beneath,  wrapped  in  magnifying  mists  ; 
it  is  the  world  of  dewy  vapors  and  undefined  shapes. 
Peasants  I  find  cutting  brushwood  up  here.  How  far  to 
Marcopoulo?  One  hour.  On,  on,  the  distance  is  not 
long;  patience,  thou  much-enduring,  wet-skinned  man! 
Fill  thy  imagination  with  antique  clear  visions  and  forget 
this  outer  foggy  world ;  think  of  old  Ulysses,  the  long- 
sufferer,  who  in  the  brine  of  the  sea  was  tossed  about  by 


FEOM  MAEATHON  TO  MAECOPOULO.     119 

a  storm,  clinging  to  a  billet  of  wood  for  two  days,  and 
was  rewarded  on  shore  by  seeing  the  fairest  of  earthly 
maidens,  that  sweet  Phaeacian  girl,  Nausicaa.  Some  such 
shape  may  be  waiting  for  thee,  when  thou  comest  again 
into  sunlight. 

Thus  the  traveler  in  Greece  passes  through  fierce  storms 
and  dense  fogs,  unconquerable,  unassailable ;  descending 
the  rock-strewn  slope  he  leaps  from  stone  to  stone,  with 
an  occasional  slip,  but  always  accompanied  by  a  bright 
image  or  perchance  by  a  God  who  will  help  him  if  he  falls. 
If  he  have  brought  the  material  along,  he  can  weave  many 
a  radiant  fabric  out  of  ancient  lore,  as  he  tramps  away, 
up  hill  and  down  over  the  wet  rough  thoroughfare.  Now 
he  descends,  and  the  fog  lifts  ;  passing  by  a  little  church 
he  stands  on  the  ridge  and  beholds  the  long  sweep  of  the 
mountain  slanting  into  the  green  valley.  Lying  on  the 
slope  just  below  him  is  Marcopoulo  breaking  suddenly 
into  view ;  its  chimneys  are  sending  up  thin  curls  of 
bluish  smoke  which  spread  out  at  the  top  and  join  the 
clouds.  There  are  bright  fires  on  those  hearths ;  the 
mere  thought  sends  hope  and  gladness  into  the  heart  of 
the  dripping  traveler. 

I  was  not  slow  in  reaching  the  khan  or  Greek  inn,  which 
was  pointed  out  to  me  by  a  rude-looking  but  friendly 
Albanian ;  this,  too,  is  an  Albanian  town,  though  the  inn- 
keeper is  a  Greek.  I  drank  a  raid  with  my  informant  at 
the  usual  rate  of  one  cent  a  glass,  and  then  sat  down  on  a 
bench  in  my  heavy  wet  garments.  It  was  a  most  dismal 
place  for  a  rainy  day  —  dark,  damp,  chilly,  uncanny. 
The  bench  on  which  I  sat  was  soon  covered  with  little 
streams  of  water,  whose  fountain  head  was  my  overcoat, 
finding  their, way  down  the  grooves,  and  filling  the  worm 
holes.  I  can  say  with  truth  th'at  I  was  uncomfortable ;  in 
a  fit  of  sinful  weakness  I  was  quite  ready  to  curse  all 
traveling,  and  harbored  for  an  instant  the  thought  of 
giving  up  the  great  tour  of  Greece  afoot  and  alone.  As 
I  look  back,  I  now  consider  that  to  have  been  a  decisive 
moment,  for  just  then  the  landlord  came  and  asked  me : 
Would  you  like  to  have  a  fire? 

He  took  me  to  his  own  blazing  hearth  around  which  the 


120  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

children  of  the  household  were  playing  —  bright-eyed, 
dark-haired  little  ones,  full  of  impudence,  merriment  and 
mockery.  It  is  true  that  no  small  portion  of  the  smoke 
refused  to  pass  out  of  the  room  through  the  chimney ;  but 
who  can  describe  the  luxury  of  that  fire,  the  old  fire  in 
the  hearth,  on  the  evening  of  a  chill  rainy  day?  I  sat 
down  before  it  and  dried  myself ;  soon  the  waters  of  the 
wet  garments  began  to  rise  up  around  me  in  great  clouds 
of  vapor  somewhat  like  those  of  the  mountains.  I  sat 
there  and  steamed,  as  if  I  were  some  aqueous  shape  and 
were  boiling  in  my  own  kettle  ;  no  aroma  of  incense  or  of 
burnt-offering  could  be  more  delightful  than  that  steam 
as  it  ascended  to  the  nostrils.  The  old  fire-place  of  boy- 
hood came  back,  with  the  merry  sports  of  the  long  winter 
evening ;  but  that  was  without  the  luxury  of  this  exhala- 
tion wrapping  me  in  my  own  clouds.  Now  I  wish  to  be 
only  a  traveler  and  to  travel  on  rainy  days. 

The  landlord  made  the  first  preparation  for  supper ;  he 
placed  an  ample  pot  of  beans  over  the  fire.  The  mother 
was  absent  on  a  visit ;  the  father  went  out  to  his  wineshop, 
and  a  pretty  Greek  girl  entered  to  tend  to  the  children ;  jet- 
black  sparkling  eyes,  fair  features,  gentle  innocence  were 
there,  yet  with  flashes  of  sadness  through  her  young  face 
that  stole  down  into  the  emotion  of  the  beholder.  She 
was  called  Euphrosyne,  that  is  cheerfulness,  and  more- 
over, the  name  of  one  of  the  Graces.  I  could  not  succeed 
in  getting  the  young  Grace  to  talk  much ;  she  was  shy  and 
doubtless  understood  very  little  of  my  high  Greek,  though 
I  toned  it  down  as  well  as  I  could  with  the  popular 
Romaic. 

But  those  children  were  not  sad  —  three  of  them  to- 
gether came  capering  around  the  bright  hearth.  They 
were  soon  acquainted,  nay,'  familiar  with  the  stranger  and 
began  to  play  him  little  pranks.  Euphrosyne,  herself 
hardly  more  than  a  child,  could  not  restrain  them  but  had 
to  laugh  along  with  them  when  they  tipped  him  over  as  he 
sat  on  the  three-legged  stool  enveloped  in  the  steam  of 
his  garments.  Their  Greek  nature  showed  itself  in  their 
little  Aristophanic  mockeries ;  I  could  say  no  word,  make 
no  movement,  without  their  throwing  it  back  into  my 


FROM  MARATHON  TO  MARGOPOULO.     121 

face  in  caricature.  Particularly  Zacharias,  a  little  fellow 
of  four  years,  showed  his  inborn  genius  in  mocking  my 
broken  Greek,  then  all  three  would  repeat  what  he  said 
in  a  chorus  of  infant  laughter. 

Well,  what  of  it?  you  ask.  Do  not  all  children  do  the 
same?  It  may  be  so,  but  I  was  unwilling  to  entertain 
such  a  thought.  You  must  recollect  I  was,  and  you 
ought  to  be,  in  Greece,  hence  I  could  see  and  }^ou  must 
see  in  these  children  the  infant  germs  of  those  supreme 
merry-makers  and  mockers  of  the  world  —  Aristophanes 
and  Lucian.  Into  such  ancient  shapes  the  little  ones 
grow  before  me  while  I  sit  here  at  the  fire,  with  no 
pleasant  vapor  rising  now,  for  the  garments  are  completely 
dry. 

The  mother  comes  home  ;  it  is  time  for  supper ;  I  con- 
gratulate myself  on  the  prospect  of  taking  a  meal  with  a 
Greek  family.  The  host  was  going  to  give  me  a  place  at 
one  side,  all  to  myself,  but  I  asked  the  favor  of  eating  with 
the  wife  and  children,  and  he  gave  his  consent  with  mani- 
fest pleasure.  First,  a  large  mat  was  spread  out  on  the 
floor  upon  which  we  all  sat  down  in  a  circle  ;  a  stool  was 
offered  to  me  as  a  special  honor  to  the  guest,  but  I  re- 
fused it  and  took  my  place  on  the  mat  with  the  others. 
The  table  was  brought  and  placed  between  us ;  it  was  cir- 
cular, without  support,  and  lay  flat  on  the  floor.  Thus 
we  were  squatted  around  it;  the  rest  took  off  their  shoes 
as  they  sat  down,  and  crossed  their  legs.  I  followed 
their  example.  Stocking  feet,  nay  stockingless  feet  ap- 
peared there  at  the  table,  while  we  lapped  our  limbs  over 
like  so  many  tailors.  The  position  was  not  an  easy  one 
for  me,  the  sartorious  muscle  soon  began  to  twitch  and 
squirm  with  pain,  at  this  unaccustomed  duty. 

The  large  crock  of  bean-soup  was  placed  upon  the 
table,  redolent  with  oil  and  steam,  sending  up  a  fragrance 
not  ungrateful  to  the  hungry  traveler.  Kalos  oriste  —  they 
all  muttered,  crossing  themselves  several  times  ;  this  was 
their  way  of  saying  grace,  as  the  landlord  explained.  I 
repeated  the  same  words  and  went  through  the  crucial 
motions  too,  rather  mechanically  I  think.  I  did  not  want 
to  excite  any  religious  questioning  again,  as  I  had  unfor- 


122  A    WALK  7.V  HELLAS. 

tunately  done  at  Marathon.  JVIy  special  distinction  was 
to  have  a  plate  of  soup  all  to  myself ;  the  others  dipped 
freely  into  the  common  dish.  Our  bill  of  fare  was  as 
follows :  good  black  bread,  very  palatable  and  nutritious, 
crumbled  into  the  bean-soup  ;  cured  fish  from  Constanti- 
nople ;  goat's  cheese;  but  the  supreme  delicacy  of  the 
meal  was  a  species  of  clam  taken  from  the  neighboring 
Euripus,  which  was  roasted  in  the  hot  ashes  of  the  hearth 
and  flavored  with  a  drop  of  lemon  juice.  Finally,  let  it 
not  be -forgotten,  for  we  did  not  forget  it:  a  huge  demi- 
john of  recinato  stood  at  the  side  of  the  host,  its  delight- 
ful gurgle  would  always  come  to  our  assistance  and  wash 
down  the  most  obstinate  mouthful. 

Besides  myself  there  was  present  another  guest,  a 
Greek  from  Thebes,  a  jolly  old  fellow,  in  a  rather  be- 
smirched f ustanella ;  he  took  his  place  on  the  mat  bare- 
footed, having  removed  his  red  moccasins  at  the  door, 
according  to  custom.  He  sat  next  to  the  hearth,  and 
while  doing  full  justice  to  his  supper,  he  found  time  to 
superintend  the  roasting  of  the  clams.  Varvouillya  every- 
body familiarly  called  him.  I  admired  and  highly  praised 
his  expertness  in  his  present  occupation,  whereat  he 
exerted  anew  both  skill  and  speed ,  of  which  I  derived  the 
chief  benefit.  Then  there  was  the  host  with  the  demi- 
john at  his  side,  a  man  naturally  of  a  jovial  temperament, 
now  becoming  more  jovial  with  the  minutes.  The  wife 
placed  herself  a  little  to  one  side  with  the  children, 
squatting  like  the  rest  of  us  ;  she  was  very  quiet,  though 
I  insisted  on  drinking  repeatedly  to  the  health  of  our 
hostess.  She,  too,  probably  did  not  understand  my 
Greek  very  well;  certainly  I  did  not  understand 
hers.  The  husband  excused  her,  saying  she  spoke  a 
peculiar  dialect ;  but  he  would  never  fail  to  answer  the 
toast  himself,  with  a  full  bumper.  He  spoke  Greek 
well ;  he  had  been  a  student  of  one  of  the  Greek  gymna- 
siums, and  had  read  the  ancient  classics. 

So  we  sat  there  around  the  low  table,  and  feasted  and 
chatted  with  many  a  merry  dash  at  waspish  old  Time, 
proposing  healths  to  one  another  with  lofty  compliments, 
not  failing  to  drink  long  prosperity  to  our  dear  Hellas  and 


FROM  MARATHON'  TO  MARCOPOULO.  123 

our  dear  America.  The  host  became  illuminated,  he 
dropped  unaccountably  his  native  Greek  tongue  and  in- 
sisted upon  talking  Italian  with  me  —  a  most  unintelligi- 
ble broken  Italian,  to  which  for  the  life  of  me  I  could  get 
no  clew ;  either  he  or  I  or  both  of  us  had  become  dazed. 
Still  Varvouillya  kept  raking  the  clams  out  of  the  hot 
ashes  and  we  ate  them ;  while  the  host  on  the  other  side 
of  the  table  replenished  our  mugs  with  recinato  from  the 
demijohn ;  between  the  twain  I  sat  and  received  from 
both  directions.  Meantime  the  children  had  finished 
their  supper ;  they  nodded,  rolled  over  on  the  floor  beside 
the  hearth,  and  were  soon  asleep.  The  host  talked 
louder,  faster,  in  a  still  more  unintelligible  Italian ; 
Varvouillya  raked  out  the  last  of  the  clams ;  but  there 
was  still  recinato  in  that  demijohn. 

The  wife,  who,  if  I  had  read  her  aright,  had  begun  to 
grow  a  little  sulky  at  our  prolonged  and  ever-increasing 
festivity,  now  interfered  ;  she  declared  that  she  wished  to 
retire,  and  as  this  was  her  bed-room  as  well  as  parlor  and 
kitchen,  we  had  to  vacate.  Varvouillya  slipped  into  his 
moccasins  and  slid  off  into  the  darkness  somewhither, 
like  a  bat ;  I  was  shown  to  my  chamber  by  the  merry  host 
who  had  grown  very  affectionate  and  embraced  me  with  an 
unexpected  kiss,  not  uncommon  in  Greece,  as  we  parted 
for  the  night. 

It  requires  a  little  touch  of  anger  against  future  gener- 
ations to  be  a  writer,  and  I  felt  in  altogether  too  good  a 
humor  to  take  even  a  note  that  evening;  the  wise  ami 
foolish  things  said  and  done  must  now  be  handed  over  to 
oblivion.  But  as  I  lay  in  bed  and  reflected  on  the  battle 
of  the  day,  I  concluded  that  after  many  fluctuations,  after 
temporary  defeats  even,  it  had  ended  in  a  glorious  victory. 
In  the  forenoon  I  had  been  assailed  with  no  little  energy, 
but  I  was  fortunate  in  having  valiant  Aristides  as  a  fellow- 
soldier  at  my  side  ;  in  the  afternoon  the  enemy,  envelop- 
ing me  in  thick  clouds  had  attacked  me  alone  from  all 
quarters  within  and  without;  still  I  had  won  the  day. 
On  the  whole  this  was  my  Marathon  ;  I  felt  that  hence- 
forth I  would  pass  through  Greece  from  end  to  end  in  a 
kind  of  triumphal  march.  List !  the  rain  is  now  beating 


124  A  WALK  IX  HELLAS. 

on  the  roof,  still  the  elements  are  angry,  to-morrow  threat- 
ens to  be  again  a  day  of  battle ;  but  to-night  at  least  I 
shall  not  borrow  any  trouble. 


VI.    RAINT  DAY  AT  MARCOPOULO. 

As  I  rose  in  the  morning  and  looked  out  of  the  window, 
every  appearance  indicated  that  I  was  weather-bound. 
It  had  rained  all  night;  though  the  rain  had  ceased 
falling  just  at  that  moment,  the  clouds  looked  leaden 
and  surcharged,  and  flew  by  the  window  with  a  sullen 
threatening.  I  did  not  care  to  venture  another  day 
like  the  preceding;  my  Greek  mood  might  under  too 
great  stress,  break  down.  Nor  could  I  proceed,  if  I 
would ;  the  streams  had  doubtless  risen  to  such  a  height 
that  they  were  impassable.  The  nature  of  the  Greek  rain- 
fall had  often  been  told  me  by  way  of  warning ;  a  heavy 
shower  descends ;  the  brooks,  previously  a  mere  bed  of 
dry  rocks,  become  suddenly  mountain  torrents  which  can- 
not be  crossed  by  man  or  beast.  Nor  are  there  any 
bridges  worth  mentioning  in  Greece ;  indeed  any  ordi- 
nary bridge  would  be  apt  to  be  swept  away  in  the  first 
storm. 

It  is  winter,  but  winter  in  this  country  means  the  rainy 
season.  In  the  valleys  very  little  snow  falls,  and  when  it 
does  fall,  it  lasts  usually  but  a  portion  of  a  day.  Still 
there  is  hardly  a  point  in  Greece  from  which  you  cannot 
see  the  snow  upon  the  mountains,  and  in  the  course  of  a 
few  hours  you  can  reach  the  snow  point.  It  is  possible 
in  a  single  excursion  to  pass  through  the  four  seasons  at 
certain  times  of  the  year.  I  recollect  a  day's  walk  which 
I  once  took  in  the  Parnassian  region ;  below  in  the  Kris- 
ssean  plane  at  the  level  of  the  sea  there  was  tropical 
vegetation  in  its  full  luxuriance ;  at  Krissa  garden  vege- 
tables grew  in  the  open  air;  at  Delphi,  still  higher  in  the 
ascent,  these  same  vegetables  would  no  longer  grow,  and 
the  olive  ceased  to  flourish,  though  it  quite  reached  that 


DAI"  AT  MARCOPOULO.  125 

point ;  about  Arachoba,  and  a  little  above  it,  "the  growth 
of  the  grape  had  attained  its  highest  limit  and  the  heat  of 
summer  is  scarcely  felt ;  at  the  Kalyvia,  in  a  table  land  on 
the  Parnassus,  the  hardier  grains  only  would  thrive,  and 
people  would  not  remain  there  during  the  winter  on  ac- 
count of  the  severity  of  the  cold ;  still  higher  were  the 
pine  woods,  and  finally  the  unbroken  surface  of  the  snow. 
Thus  the  Greek  had  the  advantage  of  all  climates  at  his 
very  door,  and  this  variety  of  nature  was  stamped  upon 
his  varied  and  versatile  character.  Somewhat  of  the  like 
instinct  in  our  own  country  is  seen  in  the  vast  summer 
migrations  of  the  people ;  but  to  attain  the  variety  of  one 
Greek  day,  we  have  often  to  travel  hundreds  and  thou- 
sands of  miles. 

On  looking  around  the  room,  sundry  indications  of  the 
tastes  and  customs  of  the  people  become  manifest.  An- 
cient heirlooms  are  here — weapons  of  various  kinds, 
garments  decorated  in  a  sort  of  barbaric  splendor  with 
gold  tinsel  and  strongly  contrasting  colors.  It  was  here, 
I  think,  that  I  saw  the  likenesses  of  King  Otho  and  Queen 
Amelia  in  rudely  colored  prints  suspended  on  the  wall. 
You  may  know  that  these  persons  were  the  former  king 
and  queen  of  Greece  who,  having  been  expelled,  were 
succeeded  by  the  present  sovereigns,  George  and  Olga. 
I  found  still  among  the  Greeks  in  the  provinces  a  lively 
feeling  of  gratitude  for  their  former  rulers,  and  many  per- 
sons, though  having  no  dislike  for  the  present  dynasty, 
thought  that  the  previous  sovereigns  had  been  treated 
with  gross  injustice.  The  change  was  repeatedly  de- 
clared to  have  been  a  revolution  brought  about  by  the 
politicians  and  schemers  at  Athens,  backed  by  the 
intrigues  of  fcertain  European  powers.  Still  the  Greek 
people  as  a  whole  have  sanctioned  the  result,  and  it  must 
be  confessed  that  King  Otho  with  his  Bavarian  tendencies 
had  succeeded  in  making  himself  very  unacceptable  to 
the  more  aspiring  portion  of  the  Greeks. 

There  are  no  utensils  for  washing  in  the  room,  nor  any 
water,  but  there  is  plenty  outside,  for  it  has  rained  all 
night ;  so  there  is  no  use  of  despairing  of  an  ablution.  I 
go  down  the  stairs  into  the  yard ;  the  little  serving-girl, 


126  A  WALK  IN"  HELLAS. 

pretty  Euphrosyne,  appears  with  a  tin  cup  that  has  seve- 
ral holes  in  the  bottom,  out  of  which  the  water  issues 
in  convenient  jets ;  she  partly  pours  and  partly  holds 
those  jets  over  the  hands  of  the  guest.  Zacharias  is  also 
present  and  still  keeps  up  his  mimicry ;  whatever  I  say 
or  do  he  instinctively  imitates  with  a  ludicrous  twist  of 
the  mouth.  The  family  have  already  breakfasted,  but 
enough  is  left  for  me,  and  more  — for  the  children  come 
again  to  the  table  and  with  great  freedom  take  hold  along 
with  me.  I  am  sure  I  enjoyed  their  presence  and  1 
shared  gladly  with  them  all  that  was  there.  At  only 
one  thing  I  rebelled;  it  was  when  Zacharias  took  the 
knife  from  my  plate  and  began  scraping  the  mud 
from  his  shoes.  It  was  so  muddy  out  of  doors,  he  said. 
Three  small  children  keep  the  mother  busy  without  at- 
tending to  scrupulous  niceties  of  housekeeping.  A  simple 
economy  reigns  throughout  the  household ;  a  hole  in  the 
wall,  besides  being  a  window,  serves  as  cupboard,  knife 
box,  provision  chest,  and  for  miscellaneous  articles. 

I  would  like  to  continue  my  journey,  but  the  host  tells 
me  that  it  is  impossible  on  account  of  the  freshet,  and  that 
in  particular,  there  is  a  large  stream,  the  Asopus,  which 
can  not  be  forded  till  the  waters  have  run  out.  He  might 
be  interested  in  detaining  me,  though  what  he  said 
seemed  very  reasonable ;  but  Varvouillya,  the  Theban, 
who  also  is  eager  to  go  forward  to  Chalcis,  confirms  em- 
phatically the  statements  of  the  host.  So  both  of  us  re- 
solve to  stay  till  to-morrow,  and  then  make  the  journey 
together.  A  day,  therefore,  a  rainy  day  at  Marcopoulo 
is  our  destiny,  for  a  passing  shower  drives  us  from  the 
yard,  where  we  are  discussing  the  matter,  into  the  wine- 
shop. 

A  number  of  Albanians  entered,  dressed  in  their  coarse 
kilts,  with  bandanna  closely  wrapped  about  the  head; 
they  look  wonderingly,  half  suspiciously  out  of  the  corn- 
ers of  their  eyes ;  yet  there  they  sit  and  say  nothing,  con- 
tent to  gaze  and  puff  at  their  paper  cigarettes.  The 
traveler  will  seek  on  a  rainy  day  to  find  out  something 
about  their  ways,  their  life,  their  consciousness.  Now 
one  of  the  main  tests  of  the  character  and  abiding  worth 


RAINY  DAY  AT  MAECOPOULO.  127 

of  a  people  is  the  interest  they  take  in  their  own  origin 
and  that  of  their  race.  Do  these  people  know  whence 
they  came  ?  I  asked  them ;  they  knew  of  Albania,  and 
that  their  ancestors  had  emigrated  thence  into  Greece. 
But  when?  The  most  ready  man  of  the  company  answered, 
that  the  emigration  took  place  about  the  time  of  the 
Greek  Revolution,  but  that  they  or  their  parents  knew 
nothing  of  it.  But  it  is  usually  placed  by  historians  far 
back  in  the  middle  ages,  and  not  fifty  years  ago.  I  tell 
them  the  fact,  whereat  they  are  surprised  ;  but  their  com- 
prehension of  five  centuries  does  not  seem  to  differ  much 
from  that  of  half  a  century. 

A  still  deeper  test  of  the  inherent  worth  and  vitality  of 
a  people  is,  whether  they  keep  alive  the  memory  of  their 
great  men,  reverencing  them  along  with  their  deities. 
This  remarkable  fact  came  to  light,  that  the  Albanians  in 
Greece  still  cherish  the  traditions  concerning  Scanderbeg, 
their  great  national  hero,  in  fact,  the  only  man  of  univer- 
sal fame  that  Albania  has  produced.  His  heroic  defense 
of  his  country  and  of  his  faith  against  the  Turks,  sur- 
vives in  the  memory  of  his  people  after  more  than  four 
centuries.  Scanderbeg,  however,  did  not  succeed  —  his 
country  was  subjugated,  yet  his  name  and  deeds  endure, 
even  though  he  was  unsuccessful.  The  hero,  the  great 
national  man,  must  always  rank  next  to  the  Gods  of  a 
people ;  he  is  veritably  the  highest  embodiment  of  the 
divine  principle  on  earth,  visibly  appearing  to  the  men  of 
his  nation  and  race,  and  realizing  what  is  deepest  within 
them.  Their  yoke,  too,  he  must  bear  with  bitter  suffer- 
ing, their  struggles  he  must  endure  for  the  sake  of  all ; 
what  they  are  dimly  and  incompletely,  he  must  be  clearly 
and  perfectly,  making  himself  a  mirror,  as  it  were,  in 
which  they  for  the  first  time  may  fully  behold  themselves. 
Jt  will  be  a  calamitous  hour,  when  they  forget  him ;  one 
may  affirm,  it  will  be  the  hour  of  (heir  disappearance,  for 
their  ideal,  their  essence  is  then  lost.  So  it  will  delight 
the  traveler  to  find  that,  in  these  rude  huts,  far  away 
from  the  primitive  home  of  his  people,  Scanderbeg  is  still 
alive  in  his  deeds  and  example. 

After  having  talked  awhile  and  at  frequent  intervals 


128  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

gone  to  the  door  to  look  at  the  weather,  I  took  out  my 
note-book,  to  beguile  the  tedious  minutes,  and  began 
jotting  down  some  little  incidents,  for  it  never  passed  out 
oi  mind  that  I  might  desire  to  tell  them  to  you  who  are 
now  present.  My  Greek  host,  at  all  times  full  of  curiosity, 
looked  over  my  shoulder,  and,  though  he  could  not  read 
the  strange  characters,  he  nevertheless  knew  what  I  was 
about.  ' '  I  see  that  you  are  going  to  write  a  book  on 
Marcopoulo,"  says  he ;  "  come  and  take  a  glass  of  wine, 
so  that  you  can  write  better ;  I  wish  you  to  put  down  in 
it  all  my  family  — •  wife,  children  and  myself. ' '  Therewith 
he  brought  me  a  glass  of  his  best  recinato,  which  he  had 
hitherto  kept  back ;  I  promised  that  I  would  obey  his  re- 
quest —  and  I  have  tried  to  do  so,  as  you  can  now  testify. 
It  was  not  the  only  time  that  such  a  demand  was  made 
upon  me,  I  sat  down  once  by  chance  before  a  house 
which  had  a  small,  rude  balcony,  the  pride  of  the  owner ; 
first,  two  women  came  out  and  looked  at  me  with  staring 
wonder ;  then  they  called  two  men  from  within,  when  one 
of  them  spoke  down  to  me :  Put  my  balcony  into  your 
book.  Even  the  peasant  has  some  vague  notion  about 
the  immense  amount  of  writing  to  which  his  country  has 
given  rise,  and  he  naturally  suspects  every  person  who 
passes  through  as  intending  to  be  guilty  of  a  book.  It  is 
a  suspicion  only  too  often  well-grounded,  alack-a-day !  I 
did  not  escape  it,  notwithstanding  the  look  of  innocence 
which  I  tried  to  put  on.  I  might  as  well  confess  the  truth 
now  —  I  was  guilty,  murder  will  out,  be  it  the  murder  of 
a  book. 

But  the  shower  passes  over  and  permits  me  to  leave  the 
wineshop ;  I  go  out  to  see  the  ruins  of  a  temple  supposed 
to  be  that  of  Amphiaraus.  Exactly  why  he  should  be 
worshiped  in  this  locality  is  not  easy  to  tell.  Amphiaraus 
was  a  hero  and  a  prophet ;  he  combined  the  courage  of  the 
one  with  the  foresight  of  the  other.  He  stands  in  legend 
as  the  type  of  a  man  who  foresees  the  fatal  act  of  his  people 
and  tries  to  prevent  it ;  but,  when  he  cannot  prevent  it, 
he  goes  with  them  and  perishes,  the  victim  of  his  own  pre- 
science on  the  one  hand,  of  his  sense  of  duty  on  the  other. 
He  was  one  of  the  seven  chiefs  in  the  expedition  against 


RAINY  DAY  AT  MASCOPOULO.  129 

Thebes,  whose  unhappy  termination  he  foretold ;  but  he 
had  a  power  over  him  stronger  than  his  prophetic  power  — 
it  was  that  fatal  necklace,  which,  coupled  with  his  own 
deepest  instinct,  we  may  add,  drove  him  to  the  war. 
The  chieftains  were  defeated  and  mostly  perished; 
Amphiaraus,  beloved  of  Jupiter  the  Supreme  God,  with 
horse  and  chariot  was  swallowed  up  in  a  sudden  opening 
of  the  earth,  where  he  swayed  long  as  a  prophet,  and  was 
consulted  by  the  people.  This  whole  region  on  the 
borders  between  Attica  and  Bceotia  seems  to  have  been 
one  of  the  chief  localities  of  his  worship ;  off  yonder  over 
the  hills  not  far  from  Tanagra  the  exact  spot,  called 
Harma  or  the  Chariot,  was  anciently  pointed  out  where  he 
disappeared. 

Therefore,  if  we  take  Amphiaraus  as  some  form  of  the 
Divine  which  the  old  Greek  dwellers  along  these  slopes 
adored,  we  may  say  that  this  was  the  idea  in  their  souls : 
a  heroic  individual  gifted  with  foresight,  combining  in  one 
grand  endowment  both  courage  and  prevision,  who,  fore- 
seeing death  as  the  consequence  of  his  deed,  nevertheless 
marched  bravely  forward  and  met  it.  Assuredly  a  mani- 
festation of  the  Divine  is  this :  to  be  able  to  subordinate 
death  to  duty.  Every  human  being,  therefore,  may  with 
reverence  tread  over  these  stones,  may  have  sympathy 
and  admiration  for  the  people  who  once  walked  up  this 
inclosure  with  worship  for  such  a  principle  in  their  hearts  ;  , 
nay,  he  may  worship  here  himself,  if  worship  be  to  him  any 
thing  else  besides  orthodoxy.  Amphiaraus,  beloved  of 
Jupiter,  was  not  destroyed,  though  received  into  the 
bosom  of  the  earth  by  the  God  ;  long  he  existed  for  the 
people,  showing  heroism  in  his  example  and  uttering 
wisdom  in  his  oracle  ;  still  he  lives  for  the  traveler  looking 
only  on  the  rubbish  and  ruins  of  his  temple.  His  conflict 
is  one  that  will  exist  as  long  as  man  Qxists ;  it  is  based  on 
some  question  of  this  kind :  Is  life  then  the  highest,  or  are 
there  other  interests  in  this  world  higher  than  life?  Very 
unwillingly  do  we  pawn  the  precious  jewel  of  existence  ; 
but  Amphiaraus  did  it,  did  it  with  calm  foresight ;  hence 
in  the  olden  time  he  was  both  a  hero  and  a  prophet,  nor 
can  I  see  why  he  is  not  the  same  still.  So  the  Greek 


130  A    WALK  JiV  HELLAS. 

came  in  his  perplexity  to  this  spot  in  order  to  get  the 
answer  of  Amphiaraus  concerning  some  important  matter 
of  conduct,  of  vocation,  of  patriotism.  I  cannot  think 
that  the  old  seer  gave  any  other  response  than  this :  Look 
at  my  deed  as  thou  approachest  my  shrine ;  foresee,  and 
then  die,  if  such  be  thy  duty. 

From  the  temple  I  am  driven  back  to  the  wineshop  by 
the  brewing  of  a  new  storm,  whose  huge  brewery,  cloud- 
wrapped  in  the  heavens,  rises  up  yonder  over  the  sea. 
The  day  begins  to  grow  monotonous,  so  do  I ;  my  disap- 
pointment will  be  great  if  I  do  not  succeed  in  vividly  re- 
flecting this  monotony  in  my  talk.  I  hope  to  be  able  to 
make  you  all  yawn,  and  thus  to  impart  to  you  the  spirit 
of  the  occasion.  I  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  sit  around 
the  house  moodily  and  see  it  rain,  or,  when  the  rain  slack- 
ens a  little,  to  look  off  eagerly  into  the  clouds  for  clear 
weather.  The  feeling  of  desolation  is  increased  by  these 
Albanians  who  straggle  into  the  sombre  wineshop,  draw 
down  the  head  into  a  shaggy  capote  and  say  never  a  word. 
A  Greek  lawyer  temporarily  stopping  here  drops  in,  and 
we  all  wake  up  again  in  a  lively  discussion  about 
Takos. 

It  is  obvious  that  the  chief  incident  of  modern  Greek 
history  held  in  remembrance  in  this  town  is  the  fate  of 
the  captured  lords  and  of  their  captors,  whom  our  narra- 
tive left  some  time  ago  on  the  road  to  Marathon.  Takos, 
the  brigand  chieftain,  passed  through  Marcopoulo  with 
his  prisoners,  and  is  said  to  have  met  with  no  unfriendly 
reception  from  its  people.  Before  me  some  of  them  now 
ai'e,  some  of  the  very  men  who  received  him,  and  the  af- 
fair is  discussed  with  as  much  palpitating  warmth  as  at  the 
time  of  its  occurrence.  The  object  of  the  chieftain  seems 
to  be  clouded  in  no  little  mystery ;  just  now  the  question 
springs  up  and  is  debated  with  vehemence,  whether  Takos 
wanted  amnesty,  or  merely  ransom  for  his  prisoners  ;  the 
two  educated  persons  of  our  party,  the  lawyer  and  the 
host,  take  opposite  sides.  The  constitutional  question, 
whether  the  state  could  grant  amnesty  to  a  criminal  be- 
fore his  condemnation,  winds  subtly  through  the  discus- 
sion. It  is  also  intimated  that  the  whole  affair  was  simply 


RAINY  DAY  AT  MAEGOPOULO.  131 

a  political  move,  and  that  Takos  was  hired  by  the  ene- 
mies of  the  ministry  then  in  power  to  make  a  diversion  in 
their  favor.  So  the  disputants  continue  to  weave  about 
the  event  many  intricate  conjectures  till  the  matter  itself 
becomes  lost  in  its  own  entanglements. 

Far  more  interesting  are  the  manifold  myths  which  have 
spun  themselves  around  this  occurrence ;  the  old  myth- 
ologic  vein  has  been  made  to  pulsate  with  new  activity, 
while  popular  poetry  has  seized  the  subject  and  wrought 
the  tragic  story  of  Takos  into  many  a  strain  now  sung 
over  these  hills.  It  is  indeed  a  dramatic  theme  in  its  de- 
velopment and  fatal  end,  exciting  in  the  highest  degree 
the  imagination  of  the  people.  Just  before  me  an  old  but 
lively  peasant  can  restrain  himself  no  longer,  but  breaks 
info  the  cobwebs  of  the  discussion,  and  with  wild  gestic- 
ulations goes  through  all  the  incidents  of  the  affair, 
showing  what  the  lordies  did  and  what  Takos  did  in  those 
last  dire  moments  of  death.  He  springs  about  on  the  floor 
of  the  wineshop,  stirring  its  ancient  dust  into  wreathing 
clouds,  as  he  represents  the  various  positions  of  the  con- 
flict and  turns  red  in  the  face  with  loud  talking  and  vio- 
lent exertion. 

Such  is  the  drama  which  this  rustic  actor  tried  to  play, 
rudely  boisterous,  though  in  deep  earnestness,  and  of 
which  there  is  everywhere  the  most  lively  recollection. 
The  boldness  of  the  crime,  the  swift  punishment  of  most 
of  the  perpetrators,  and  the  suffering  of  innocent  people 
drawn  into  the  fateful  net  of  guilt,  have  gone  deep  into 
the  very  souls  of  the  peasantry.  One  always  thinks  of  a 
classic  comparison  in  Greece ;  I  can  not  help  comparing 
the  present  feeling  in  regard  to  this  event  to  the  feeling 
which  lies  bapk  of  the  Odyssey,  and  always  bursts  up  into 
its  calm  sunny  narrative  whenever  it  mentions  the  crime 
and  punishment  of  Aegisthus,  the  murderer  of  Agamem- 
non. That  wretch  who  in  the  face  of  all  Greece  had  com- 
mitted the  bold  and  for  a  time  successful  act  of  villany 
against  her  leader  and  most  conspicuous  man,  was  finally 
punished  by  the  son  Orestes  in  a  manner  at  once  startling 
and  just.  The  wrong  and  its  retribution  seem  to  have 
left  upon  the  old  Homeric  Greeks  the  one  lasting  impres- 


132  A  WALK  Itf  HELLAS. 

sion,  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  justice  in  this  world, 
and  that  the  Gods  really  exist  in  order  to  administer  it. 

Thus  the  ancient  poet  sings  of  the  nemesis  of  the  guilty 
deed ;  Ulysses  himself,  the  supreme  ethical  hero  of  Greece, 
as  his  last  and  greatest  act  will  avenge  the  wrongs  done 
by  those  profligate  suitors.  But  we  may  suppose  that  the 
case  of  Aegisthus  both  expressed  and  awoke  the  conscious- 
ness as  well  as  the  terror  of  punishment  for  the  guilty 
deed,  and  the  old  bard  palpitates  with  that  conviction 
whenever  he  mentions  the  murderer.  And  one  can  not 
help  thinking  that  such  a  conviction  among  the  people 
listening  in  silent  awe  to  that  rapt  utterance  of  the  poet 
helped  greatly  to  raise  Greece  out  of  her  Trojan  period, 
to  change  her  from  being  a  loose  group  of  bands  of  mar- 
auders into  a  nation  with  an  organized  system  of  justice. 
Arm  a  man  with  the  settled  conviction  that  guilt  is  fol- 
lowed by  the  penalty  and  that  the  Gods  exist  to  punish 
the  secret  or  the  powerful  criminal  —  such  a  man  is  ready 
to  belong  to  a  social  organism. 

One  may  well  think  that  the  swift  vengeance  sweeping 
down  upon  these  brigands  of  Takos  is  the  event  which  has 
quite  cleared  Greece  of  brigandage  in  recent  times,  and 
has  wonderfully  enlightened  her  peasantry,  inspiring  them 
with  a  just  dread  of  the  Gods.  The  direct  blow  came 
from  the  government  of  Greece,  let  the  fact  be  duly  noted 
to  its  credit;  but  the  indirect  power  behind  the  blow 
came  from  the  public  opinion  of  the  world,  expressed  in 
journalism.  A  new  and  mighty  force  it  is,  mightier  than 
Orestes,  rather  it  may  be  called  the  new  Orestes,  the  mod- 
ern avenger,  whose  hand  even  the  unlettered  peasant  in  his 
hut  far  out  of  the  path  of  civilization,  feels  in  a  dark 
mysterious  way,  and  fears  the  Gods  once  more.  I  thought 
I  saw  in  these  rude  faces  terror  still  at  the  occurrence  ; 
they  seemed  to  manifest,  at  its  recital,  a  feeling  of  dis- 
may before  the  secret  unseen  agency  which  brings  back 
to  man  his  guilty  deed. 

The  traveler  will  be  delighted  to  think  that  the  ancient 
Goddess  who  once  swayed  in  these  parts  has  risen  from 
the  rocks,  determined  to  rule  once  more  her  former  abodes. 
Look  down  toward  the  sea ;  below  in  the  valley  a  few 


EAINY  DAY  AT  MAUCOPOULO.  133 

miles  away  can  be  seen  the  site  of  ancient  Rhamnus, 
where  are  still  the  ruins  of  the  splended  temple  to  Rham- 
nusian  Nemesis,  she  who  brings  home  to  the  doer  his  deed, 
she  who  restores  the  disturbed  balance  between  right  and 
wrong.  She  once  enjoyed  a  special  worship  in  this  lo- 
calit}',  then  came  the  storms  of  the  world,  casting  into 
dust  her  form  and  throwing  down  her  structure ;  but 
again  along  these  heights  she  rises  from  the  broken  stones 
of  her  temple  and  asserts  anew  authority  over  this  people. 
For  it  is  her  thought,  the  thought  of  Nemesis,  that 
has  taken  its  seat  deep  in  the  hearts  of  the  peasantry 
and  rules  them  once  more  with  becoming  rigor.  Yet  who 
could  blame  the  simple  hind,  if  he  became  confused 
about  the  moral  government  of  the  world,  when  he  saw 
villany  go  unpunished,  and  the  honest  man  who  sought  to 
bring  the  criminal  to  justice,  fall  a  victim  to  private 
revenge?  A  person  might  well  say  in  his  heart,  there  is 
no  God ;  or,  if  there  ever  has  been,  he  has  fled  from  the 
face  of  the  earth.  But  the  Rhamnusian  Goddess,  Neme- 
sis, has  leaped  up  from  her  ruins  of  a  thousand  years, 
has  taken  possession  of  her  primitive  seats,  and  the  prayer 
of  the  traveler  is,  Long  may  she  remain  and  sway  with 
her  iron  scepter  this  her  ancient  territory. 

Listen  now  to  a  divine  legend  of  this  same  spot.  The 
old  statue  of  the  Goddess  of  Rhamnus  was  made  out  of 
a  block  of  Parian  marble  which  the  Persians,  in  their 
haughtiness,  had  brought  to  the  Marathonian  battle-field, 
for  the  purpose  of  erecting  a  trophy  over  the  vanquished 
Greeks.  Phidias  the  Athenian,  the  great  revealer  of  the 
Gods,  took  the  block  and  hewed  out  of  it  the  statue  of 
the  Goddess  Nemesis,  says  Pausanias.  Thus  from  the 
very  triumphal  stone  of  the  enemy  sprang  the  avenging 
deity  ;  the  artist  wrought  of  the  marble  a  symbol  of  retri- 
bution against  the  invader  who  had  brought  it  there  to 
celebrate  his  insolent  wrong.  Thus  too  springs  from  the 
unjust  action  the  scourging  Nemesis,  as  the  Goddess 
sprang  from  that  block,  and  brings  to  the  doer  the  penalty 
of  his  guilty  deed. 

Such  then  were  the  two  temples  that  anciently  stood  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Marcopoulo  —  that  of  Amphiaraus 


134  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

and  that  of  the  Rhamnnsian  Goddess  —  the  latter  of 
which  lay  at  some  distance  but  may  be  said  to  belong  to 
this  region.  But  the  most  interesting  as  well  as  the  most 
beautiful  of  all  the  ruins  in  Greece,  nay,  I  should  say  the 
most  important  remains  of  antiquity  which  have  come 
down  to  our  time,  lie  around  me  everywhere,  and  have 
been  lying  around  me  during  the  whole  journey :  these 
are  the  remains  of  the  old  Greek  language  and  of  old 
Greek  customs.  Here  they  both  exist  in  living  activity 
and  make  that  ancient  world  a  new  one,  born  every 
moment  into  life  by  speech  and  action.  One  will  notice 
old  forms  of  words  which  have  been  manifestly  preserved 
by  tradition  from  ancient  days,  for  they  are  not  found  in 
books,  yet  seem  to  be  in  consonance  with  certain  old 
Greek  dialects.  I  do  not  feel  very  sure  upon  this  ground, 
for  my  ear  is  not  yet  accustomed  to  niceties  of  pronuncia- 
tion ;  but  so  much  may  be  affirmed,  that  this  is  the  true 
field  for  the  student  of  Greek  philology :  let  him  spend 
one  half  of  his  course  among  the  living  dialects  of  Greece, 
and  the  other  half  among  the  dead  grammarians  at  the 
University. 

But  of  the  antiquity  of  many  of  these  customs  there  can 
be  no  doubt.  You  move  in  an  ancient  atmosphere,  not 
by  any  means  of  your  own  creation,  though  you  must 
bring  some  image  of  antiquity  with  you.  Indeed  the 
entire  background  of  classical  literature  clears  up  into  a 
mellow  sunshine,  and  the  cadaverous  classical  dictionary 
leaps  forth  a  living  body,  with  its  dead  and  scattered 
members  now  jointing  themselves  into  a  vital  and  beautiful 
organism.  Far  more  than  all  the  museums  of  Italy  and 
of  other  countries,  does  Greece  to-day  contain  of  ancient 
Hellenic  life ;  elsewhere  antiquity  is  a  mummy,  here  it 
lives,  lives  in  an  ever-flowing  fountain  of  speech  and 
manners.  The  Greek  temple  is  here,  though  in  ruins,  for 
have  we  not  just  seen  it?  Broken  parts  of  column  and 
entablature  lie  scattered  about  or  must  be  dug  up  from 
the  soil ;  still  from  these  fragments  the  temple  can  be 
constructed  anew  in  its  original  vital  unity.  But  to  see 
the  dry,  anatomized  dictionary  actually  sprouting  with 
fresh  buds  every  day,  its  old  withered  limbs  covering 


EAINT  DAY  AT  MARCOPOULO.  135 

themselves  with  green  leaves  and  sproutings,  is  a  joy  like 
that  of  the  new  spring-time  after  a  dreary  winter. 

Yet  amid  so  many  delights  I  must  confess  to  one  dis- 
appointment: I  have  not  seen  Helen  nor  indeed  the 
possibility  of  Helen.  I  do  not  now  expect  to  lind  her  in 
this  portion  of  Greece.  The  Albanian  type  has  had  pos- 
session of  these  hills  for  some  centuries,  and  though  the 
Albanians  have  adopted  and  preserved  much  that  was 
Greek,  and  may  have  had  a  common  origin  with  the 
Greek  in  the  old  Pelasgic  stock,  they  have  no  Helen. 
Onward  then,  still  onward  we  must  pass  in  the  search, 
yet  not  without  hope  ;  for  where  so  much  has  survived, 
she  too  may  possibly  have  survived,  in  primitive  youthful 
beauty.  Also  a  faint  rumor  we  have  heard  with  new  en- 
couragement, that  off  somewhere  in  the  distant  mountains 
she  is  concealed  in  peasant  garb,  accessible  only  to  the 
most  enthusiastic  and  determined  suitor.  Looking  in 
restless  expectancy  at  those  mountains  with  summit  and 
sides  wrapped  in  clouds,  yet  thinking  always  of  what  they 
conceal,  we  shall  still  keep  up  our  light-hearted  journey. 
But  it  is  a  rainy  day  and  we  are  penned  in  by  the  storm ; 
it  offers  therefore  a  good  opportunity  for  retrospection 
and  renewed  purpose;  so  we  resolve  with  fresh  ardor  to 
maintain  the  quest. 

Long  we  continued  to  sit  around  the  table  sipping  the 
moments  away  with  the  golden  recinato,  while  the  tempest 
was  whistling  and  whirling  furiously  outside.  One  begins 
to  feel  cramped  up,  the  wineshop  is  already  too  small  for 
the  chafing  spirit,  Greece  itself  appears  to  be  getting  too 
small.  Suddenly  the  lawyer  began  to  talk  about  America : 
that  is  a  country  large  enough  for  anybody  to  stretch 
himself  out  upon.  He  asked  me  if  I  knew  some  person 
at  Boston  ;  I  had  to  tell  him  that  between  my  home  and 
Boston  lay  an  extent  of  territory  much  greater  than  that 
between  Greece  and  Rome,  the  two  main  centers  of 
ancient  civilization,  a  distance  hardly  less  than  that  from 
Greece  to  North- Western  Europe,  the  seat  of  modern 
civilization.  With  such  slow  and  painful  steps  does  our 
world  seem  to  move  in  that  Eastern  continent  —  be  it  said 
with  all  due  gratitude  and  reverence.  But  on  the  other 


136  A  WALK  JN  HELLAS 

hand  the  distance  between  St.  Louis  and  Boston,  if  we 
reckon  by  time,  by  ease  of  traveling,  e'ven  by  expense,  is 
not  as  great  as  that  between  this  little  Attic  town  Mar- 
copoulo  and  Athens.  Nor  did  I  fail  to  maintain  to  those 
two  keen-witted  Greeks  before  me  the  metaphysical 
subtlety  that  in  America  Space  is  destined  to  sink  away, 
and  be  subsumed  in  Time  really,  that  is,  to  the  very  senses 
of  men,  as  it  already  had  done  ideally  to  the  mind  of  the 
old  Greek  philosopher. 

Having  thus  once  more  felt  in  that  little  wineshop  the 
free  range  arid  the  boundless  expanse  of  the  prairies  of 
our  western  world  I  could  not  help  enlarging  still  further, 
and  spoke  again  of  those  space-devouring  Americans  with 
their  inventions  —  the  Telegraph  which  extends  its  arms 
around  the  earth  and  drops  its  message  at  any  point ;  the 
Telephone,  which  carries  not  simply  the  written  word, 
but  the  voice  in  all  its  tones  through  Space ;  finally  the 
wonderful  Phonograph  invented  this  very  year,  the  ma- 
chine which  speaks  and  proposes  to  carry  the  voice  not 
through  Space  merely,  but  through  Time  itself,  so  that 
the  spoken  word,  in  all  its  modulation  and  color,  shall  be- 
come eternal.  I  added  with  the  most  mysterious  air  at 
my  command:  Time,  too,  like  Space  is  destined  there  to 
be  no  longer  an  impassable  limit  within  which  man  is  kept 
in  a  prison-house,  but  will  sink  away  for  the  senses,  and 
be  subsumed  into  a  higher  entity.  Then  those  Greeks 
were  lost  —  lost  in  blank  amazement ;  they  seemed 
touched  almost  with  despair  at  the  wonderful  achieve- 
ments of  a  superior  race.  For  the  lawyer  was  actually 
brought  to  declare:  Yes,  your  people  are  most  like  to 
our  ancestors,  and  to  us. 

Giving  them  honest  words  of  assent  and  comfort,  the 
speaker,  true  to  his  nationality,  could  not  so  suddenly 
stop  that  flight  of  winged  words,  for  he  must  now  make 
a  speech,  and  so  he  continued :  The  ancient  Greeks  in- 
deed created  the  ideal  types  which  we  have  filled,  and  are 
still  filling  with  reality.  What  are  all  these  mechanical 
wonders,  for  instance,  but  the  realization  of  what  that 
gifted  people,  your  forefathers,  suggested  in  thought  and 
in  imagination,  in  their  philosophy  aud  in  their  poetry? 


RAINY  DAY  AT  MARCOPOULO.  137 

In  fact  what  are  they  but  the  fulfillment  of  prophetic 
gleamings  found  in  one  Greek  man,  old  Homer?  What 
is  the  Telegraph  communicating  its  message  to  the  ends 
of  the  earth  but  Hermes,  messenger  of  the  Gods,  with 
winged  sandals  swaying  over  land  and  sea,  bearing  the  news 
from  Olympus  down  to  mortals  at  a  thought  ?  What  is 
the  Telephone  but  the  far-sounding  Jupiter,  sitting  above 
the  clouds  in  the  pure  noiseless  ether,  uttering  his  word 
to  the  people,  not  exactly  in  thunder  now,  but  in  a  wa}r 
even  more  emphatic  and  far-reaching?  And  what  is  the 
Phonograph  but  that  wonderful  voice  of  the  Poet  himself, 
still  heard  sweetly  singing  down  through  the  ages  in  all 
its  luscious  color  and  modulation,  and  which  will  go  on 
singing  to  all  eternity?  Voice  too  fixed  now  strangely  in 
characters  which  the  bard  himself  could  not  read,  were 
he  at  present  to  come  back  to  earth  again. 

These  forms  of  the  imagination  are  in  our  day  being 
realized,  made  palpable  in  material  shapes ;  thus,  how- 
ever, they  must  descend  from  their  height,  must  drop 
from  poetry  into  prose.  So  one  may  well  believe  that 
the  World's  History  is  always  doing;  the  forms  of  the 
imagination  seen  by  Poet  or  Prophet  are  made  actual ; 
thus  the  truest  work  that  our  latest  civilization  has  done 
is  to  translate  Homer  into  prose  ;  this  is  indeed  the  best 
translation.  Nor  can  we  stop  yet ;  plenty  of  work  has 
the  old  bard  given  us  to  do  for  indefinite  ages  to  come,  if 
we  would  completely  fill  his  forms  with  reality.  Not  iin- 
til  every  individual  can  be  his  own  Hermes,  put  on  some 
mysterious  talaria  or  sandal  wings,  grasp  some  unknown 
strange  caduceus  or  serpent  wand,  and  thus  equipped 
strike  out  boldly  through  the  air  to  the  other  side  of  the 
earth  to  visit  a  neighbor  or  take  a  look  at  the  Parthenon 
before  breakfast  —  not  until  then  can  we  be  said  to  have 
done  with  this  question  of  translating  Homer. 

Which  is  the  greater,  he  or  we  ?  one  will  hear  it  often 
asked.  He  doubtless  is  the  creator,  he  created  in  beauty 
the  forms  which  we  are  seeking  to  endow  with  material 
reality ;  we  are  but  carrying  out  the  instructions,  working 
after  the  pattern  of  the  master ;  we  are  simply  fulfilling 
his  prophecy,  or  are  the  offspring  of  his  typical  characters. 


138  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

He  is  the  original,  he  is  the  greater.  But  each  one  of  us 
sits  on  a  throne,  as  Jupiter  on  Olympus,  controlling  a 
world ;  we  lord  it  infinitely  like  a  deity,  little  restrained 
by  the  limits  of  Space  and  Time ;  we  do  and  are  quite  all 
that  the  old  Greek  divinities  did  or  were.  We  mortals 
have  indeed  become  Homer's  Gods,  and  mightier ;  we  are 
the  greater. 

But  hold !  I  find  that  I  have  completely  fallen  out  of 
my  part ;  I  began  by  making  this  speech  to  the  Greeks 
there  in  the  wineshop,  but  I  have  gradually  lapsed  into 
addressing  it  wholly  to  you  here.  Such  tricks  the  rainy 
day  plays  upon  us  with  its  driving  tempest  of  reflections. 
Still  something  of  the  kind  was  said  then ;  there  was  the 
lawyer  sitting  with  the  host,  both  of  whom  could  under- 
stand me ;  there  too  was  Varvouillya,  the  Theban,  with  a 
huge  wart  on  his  nose,  lying  back  in  a  kind  of  mystified 
revery,  yet  never  failing  to  take  his  portion  of  recinato. 
Most  of  the  Albanians  went  away,  preferring  the  rain  out- 
side, of  which,  to  be  just  to  them,  they  and  their  garments 
were  in  greater  need  than  of  my  sort  of  drenching.  Still 
we  continued  to  quaff  in  gentle  measures  the  golden  liquid, 
more  wonderful  than  the  touch  of  Midas,  who  could  only 
turn  material  things  into  shining  metal.  At  last  the  sun 
himself  came  out,  golden  too,  and  shone  upon  the  table 
before  us,  promising  a  glorious  morrow. 

And  now  about  all  this  drinking  —  what  does  it  mean  in 
you?  Thus  I  have  been  repeatedly  asked,  particularly  by 
young  ladies.  Did  you  really  drink  all  that  you  say  you 
did  —  you  have  more  the  appearance  of  an  apostle  of  total 
abstinence  than  of  a  jovial  Greek —  did  you  drink  all  that 
wine  ?  So  they  ask  me,  getting  a  little  solicitous  about  my 
personal  habits  while  away  from  home  and  its  good  in- 
fluences. But  on  the  whole  I  have  to  answer :  Yes,  so  it  is 
and  not  otherwise.  You  see  that  Greece  is  not  Greece 
without  its  wine,  and  I  for  one  went  to  see  Greece,  and 
even  to  be  a  Greek  as  far  as  I  could,  while  I  was  in  that 
land.  Nor  would  there  be  any  complete  Italy  without  its 
wine  ;  it  so  partakes  of  the  life  and  poetry  of  these  classic 
lands,  that  it  can  not  be  left  away.  If  any  one  wishes  to 
enter  into  the  manners  and  realize  the  mode  of  living  in 


RAINY  DAY  AT  MABCOPOULO.  139 

Greece,  he  can  not  omit  the  wine.  The  poorest  peasant 
has  two  green  spots  which  he  carefully  cultivates  \\ithhis 
hands  and  cherishes  in  his  heart :  they  are  his  vineyard  and 
his  grain  field.  I  have  often  seen  him  going  to  his  work 
to  remain  the  whole  day ;  his  dinner  is  a  loaf  of  bread  and 
a  canteen  of  recinato.  These  two  things,  bread  and  wine, 
are  the  two  elements  of  his  existence,  and  the  two  objects 
for  which  the  labor  of  his  days  is  given. 

Thus  they  constitute  quite  the  entire  circle  of  his  simple 
life  ;  they  maintain  him,  he  maintains  them.  But  to  us 
they  have  come  to  stand  in  a  new  and  peculiar  relation. 
These  two  simple  staples  have  been  transmitted  from  the 
Orient  to  the  Occident  in  the  highest  and  most  venerated 
of  all  its  religious  symbols,  in  the  bread  and  wine  of  the 
Lord's  Supper.  The  Savior  took  the  two  chief  elements 
of  the  material  existence  before  him,  when  he  wished  to 
typify  the  higher  or  spiritual  existence ;  they  were  the 
symbols  most  manifest  to  the  poor  and  unlettered  peasant, 
as  they  were  taken  from  his  most  intimate  daily  expe- 
rience ;  they  were  also  the  two  segments  which  made 
up  for  him  the  completed  circle  of  life,  thus  representing 
the  completeness  of  the  higher  sphere.  But  for  us  the 
strange  fact  appears  that  one  of  these  elements  is  often 
considered  to  ally  us  not  with  the  spiritual,  but  with  the 
bestial,  and  that  many  persons  can,  without  any  apparent 
inner  dissonance,  take  it  one  moment  as  the  symbol  of 
God  and  the  next  moment  reprobate  it  as  the  product  of 
the  Devil.  Such  a  discord  would  utterly  destroy  our 
Greek  mood  ;  we  shall  try  to  banish  it  now  and  forever. 

Also  the  mighty  difference  between  the  two  articles 
should  be  observed  by  the  thoughtful  seeker  of  nourish- 
ment. Bread-  alone  supplies  the  body,  but  even  the 
peasant  scorns  such  gross  living  and  adds  the  wine. 
Bread  furnishes  bone  and  muscle,  wine  enters  the  blood 
and  excites  the  soul,  the  inner  genius  and  energy  of  the 
man.  The  former  enables  him  to  walk,  but  the  latter 
gives  him  wings.  In  other  words,  bread  is  prose,  but 
wine  is  poetry.  Nay,  it  is  the  only  poetical  drink  con- 
ceivable, celebrated  by  poets  in  all  ages.  To  sing  the 
praise  of  any  other  beverage  will  not  succeed,  somehow 


140  A  WALK  IX  HELLAS. 

or  other ;  the  song  of  water  is  insipid,  the  song  of  beer  is 
gross,  the  song  of  whisky  is  frantic.  Wine  alone  can  be 
sung  about.  Life,  the  dullest  life,  has  in  this  Grecian 
land  its  prosaic  and  its  poetic  ingredient  —  bread  and 
wine,  not  all  bread  and  butter.  To  travel  through  Greece 
and  leave  the  poetry  out,  would  be  indeed  a  most  melan- 
choly journey ;  do  not  ask  me  to  make  it,  still  less  to  tell 
of  it  afterwards.  Rather,  I  should  advise,  let  us  add  a 
little  of  this  Greek  wine  to  the  bread  of  our  own  daily 
lives. 

Moreover  it  is  a  principle  with  the  true-hearted  trav- 
eler, to  live  as  the  people  live  wherever  he  goes,  to  throw 
himself  into  their  life  and  consciousness,  into  both  their 
physical  and  spiritual  condition,  to  be  one  with  them  and 
to  exist  for  the  time  being  sympathetically  along  with 
them.  To  take  a  lofty  stand-point  above  them,  and  thence 
with  an  air  of  superiority  to  look  down  upon  their  life  and 
manners,  and  to  criticise  what  you  have  not  lived,  is  the 
way  to  deceive  yourself,  —  to  think  you  know  all  about 
them  when  you  know  nothing.  One  person,  at  least, 
whom  I  am  acquainted  with,  does  not  propose  to  travel 
in  that  way ;  he  is  going  to  drink  recinato  and  like  it, 
even  if  he  did  not  like  it —  which,  as  I  happen  to  know, 
is  not  the  case. 

Thus  it  is,  too,  with  the  fustanella,  the  Greek  male 
costume,  of  which  much  fun  has  been  made.  I  do  not 
deny  that  I  at  first  thought  it  was  the  most  ridiculous 
garment  I  ever  beheld  on  a  human  body  —  a  man  in  tights 
and  ruffles,  dressed  like  a  ballet-girl,  walking  the  streets 
in  open  day.  But  I  confess  that  the  liking  for  the  cos- 
tume grows  upon  me  as  I  see  it  in  its  true  place  on  these 
hills ;  it  is  just  fitted  for  this  climate  and  for  this  clear 
atmosphere.  It  has,  too,  a  poetic  phase,  being  very  dif- 
ferent in  this  regard  from  the  prosaic  utilitarian  dress  of 
the  Franks.  That  white  shape,  seen  far  up  the  sunny 
slope,  though  it  be  following  the  laborious  plow,  has  the 
air  of  an  eternal  holiday  and  seems  rather  some  sculpt- 
ured relief  in  marble  representing  the  toiling  husbandman 
than  an  actual  ploughman.  To  me  at  least  it  is  a  sight 
most  pleasant,  surrounding  the  prosaic  occupation  of  life 


RAINY  DAY  AT  HARCOPOULO.  141 

with  an  ideal  atmosphere  of  joy  and  beauty.  Still,  I  am 
not  so  far  advanced  as  to  drop  my  present  garments  and 
don  the  fustanella,  as  Lord  Byron  is  said  to  have  done ; 
you  must  not  expect  too  much  at  once ;  the  journey  is 
not  half  over. 

Well,  another  shower !  What  a  dull  rainy  day !  In 
order  to  impart  to  you  a  most  lively  impression  of  it,  you 
must  be  made  drowsy,  which  literary  quality  I  do  not 
despair  of  infusing  into  my  words.  If  you  have  not  yet 
yawned,  I  hope  to  succeed  in  making  you  harmonious 
with  the  occasion  by  the  following  reflections,  Avhich  give 
a  more  general  statement  of  the  question  just  discussed. 
This  question  is,  at  bottom,  concerning  the  difference 
between  morals  and  manners.  Morals  are  universal ; 
the  whole  civilized  world  has  fundamently  the  same  code 
of  morals ;  concerning  the  moral  violation  there  is  in 
general  the  same  opinion.  But  manners  are  very  different 
with  different  peoples.  Do  not  judge  men  by  the  cut  of 
their  dress,  by  their  cookery;  do  not  judge  of  the  world's 
history  by  the  ways  of  making  a  bow.  Still  further,  do 
not  condemn  morally  a  people  whose  manners  are  differ- 
ent from  your  own ;  who  wear  the  fez  and  fustanella 
and  you  do  not ;  who  drink  wine  and  you  do  not ;  who 
even  go  to  a  spectacle  on  Sunday  and  you  do  not.  Ask 
rather  this  other  question,  if  you  wish  to  find  out  the 
relative  moral  bearings :  Are  these  people  as  great 
drunkards  as  I  or  my  people ;  do  they  steal  as  much  as  I 
or  my  people ;  are  they  as  faithful  to  domestic  life,  to 
patriotic  duty  as  I  or  my  people  ?  Nowhere  in  the  world 
is  it  possible  to  conceive  of  a  rational  being  who  has  any 
doubt  concerning  the  moral  character  of  such  actions. 
But  when  there  is  an  important  difference  between  peo- 
ples, you  may  generally  assume  that  it  lies  in  the  sphere 
of  manners  rather  than  in  that  of  morals.  Men  do  not 
differ  about  the  nature  of  murder,  they  do  differ  about 
the  propriety  of  eating  with  fork  or  finger.  Travelers 
are  too  often  inclined  to  play  variations  on  this  one  jejune 
theme :  the  manners  of  this  people  are  ridiculous,  per- 
chance immoral ;  reason :  they  are  not  my  manners  or 
those  of  my  people.  On  the  contrary,  no  manners  in  the 


142  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

true  sense  of  the  word  can  be  immoral  —  they  have  no 
moral  character  one  way  or  the  other ;  they  are  all  equally 
good,  let  everybody  take  his  choice.  Make  then  most 
sharply  the  distinction  between  morals  and  manners ; 
change  the  latter  with  every  new  people  you  live  among ; 
'  but  be  careful  about  changing  the  former  with  the  change 
of  climate,  since  they  are  a  matter  of  universal  validity. 

But  let  the  mind  turn  once  more  from  this  dry  discus- 
sion to  the  liquid  source,  the  recinato,  whose  throbbing 
beads  we  raise  now  to  our  lips  before  parting,  and  empty 
our  final  glass  amid  hearty  gushes  of  good  feeling.  As  I 
spring  up  from  the  table  and  look  around,  J  notice  that 
the  sun  has  again  come  out  and  is  throwing  his  declining 
rays  aslant  the  door  sill ;  it  is  a  joyful  invitation  into  the 
fresh,  clear  air  out  of  that  cheerless  wineshop.  Behold, 
the  rain  is  over,  the  sun  is  descending  in  a  blaze  over 
the  mountain  top ;  the  last  clouds,  scattered  and  broken, 
are  fleeing  across  the  sky,  riding  with  breakneck  speed, 
like  routed  dragoons.  It  is,  however,  too  late  to  do  any 
thing  except  to  take  a  walk  to  yonder  pine  woods.  I  go 
down  the  road  which  leads  thither,  the  grass  has  a  new 
and  deeper  tinge  of  green  after  the  rain,  and  many  a  little 
flower  thrusts  out  its  mottled  head  from  among  the  rocks, 
filled  with  some  secret  instinct  of  showing  its  beauty. 

The  fragrance  that  rises  from  the  pines  meets  the  ap- 
proaching guest  more  than  half  way,  and  pleasantly  in- 
vites him  forward  to  their  shelter  with  repeated  waftings 
of  incense.  The  fresh  smell  of  the  showers  mingles  with 
the  odor  of  the  woods  ;  the  sombre  forms  of  the  conifers 
are  lighted  with  the  slanting  rays  which  glide  among  the 
small,  needle-shaped  leaves  and  transform  them  into 
millions  of  mellow  gleams  ever  dancing  between  green 
and  gold.  Suddenly,  from  a  covered  copse  just  at  the 
side  of  the  path,  the  voice  of  an  unseen  person  pierces 
loud  and  far  through  the  air,  now  washed  clean  of  every 
mote ;  it  is  quite  similar  to  that  voice  which  we  heard 
through  the  fog  yesterday  so  mysteriously  on  the  mount- 
ains. A  few  steps  reveal  the  form  ;  it  is  a  shepherd  girl ; 
and  here  is  her  flock  browsing  about  her  through  the 
woods.  Her  call  is  for  some  distant  companion,  possibly 


EAINY  DAY  AT  MAECOPOULO.  143 

for  her  lover,  whose  answer  in  like  tones  can  be  faintly 
heard  from  a  hill-side  far  off  to  the  left.  That  peculiar 
intonation  she  makes  seems  to  cut  through  the  air,  buoy- 
antly riding  over  the  dales,  creeping  up  the  sinuous 
mountain  slopes,  and  dropping  faintly  at  last  behind  the 
farthest  summits. 

But  we  shall  not  yet  turn  back  to  the  village;  the 
spendthrift,  Nature,  is  this  evening  indulging  in  one  of 
her  wildest  debauches  after  so  long  restraint ;  let  us  too 
be  filled  with  a  little  of  her  extravagance.  Behind  these 
woods  is  a  distant  view  of  a  cultivated  valley  which 
breaks  fitfully  through  between  the  trunks  of  the  trees 
whose  branches  form  close-woven  vistas  down  into  the 
rolling  fields  of  grain.  Farther  on  we  come  to  the  road 
winding  over  the  hill-side ;  we  reach  a  turn  in  it,  when 
suddenly  there  bursts  into  view  the  sea,  calmly  carrying 
the  eye  over  its  level  expanse  into  the  Invisible.  This  is 
the  Euripus,  southwards  breaking  into  the  open  sea,  but  in 
front  being  only  a  narrow  strait  dividing  the  island  Euboea 
from  the  mainland  Attica.  The  waters  now  lie  almost  in 
repose,  with  just  a  slight  tremble  under  the  rays  of  the 
setting  sun,  from  which  a  long  golden  wake  passes  over 
the  surface  of  ripples  to  the  eye  of  the  beholder,  as  if  the 
chariot  of  Apollo  was  running  across  the  sea  just  there 
out  of  the  sunset,  and  throwing  off  from  its  wheels  blaz- 
ing flakes  of  sun-fire.  Over  the  waters  is  spread  a  very 
thin  transparent  robe  of  haze,  tenderly  blue,  not  hiding 
but  rather  revealing  what  it  veils.  The  wake  of  palpitat- 
ing flames  extends  across  the  channel  to  the  other  shore  and 
lights  up  Eretria,  village  white  and  fair,  lying  on  the  bor- 
der of  the  sea.  The  town  seems  just  now  to  have  crawled 
out  of  the  waves,  like  some  white-bodied  ocean-nymph  and 
to  have  lain  down  in  the  sun  at  the  edge  of  the  water. 
There  she  looks  at  herself  in  the  glassy  depths  and  smiles, 
beholding  her  own  face  in  that  calm  mirror.  In  a  happy 
sunlit  serenity  the  silvery  line  of  houses  is  reposing  along 
the  bank  ;  thus  one  is  compelled  to  endow  the  mild  mar- 
ble outlines  of  the  spot  with  some  Greek  plastic  form.  A 
flock  of  pigeons  whirs  above  the  head ;  high  over  the  wa- 
ter they  flap  their  wings  transmuted  in  that  sunny  haze 


144  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

to  resplendent  pinions  ;  then  about  half  way  across  the 
channel  they  sweep  about  in  a  long  curve  and  fly  up  the 
strait  toward  Chalkis,  disappearing  in  golden  flames. 

Thus  fairly  on  the  sea  rests  Eretria  yonder,  bending 
like  a  crescent  of  white  marble ;  but  now  glance  behind 
the  town  to  the  heights  there  for  the  final  scene,  where 
this  day's  drowsy  drama  is  brought  to  an  end  in  gorgeous 
spectacular  pomp.  Running  through  the  island  as  far  as 
the  eye  can  reach  is  a  line  of  mountains  snow-mantled, 
along  whose  ridged  summits  the  last  beams  of  to-day  are 
reposing  with  a  lustre  soft  and  soothing  to  the  sight. 
There  the  colossal  hoary  shapes  sit,  as  it  were  at  some 
Olympian  feast,  marble  Gods  with  heads  garlanded  in 
sunshine ;  beyond  this  first  line  can  be  seen  other  heads 
looming  up  at  that  banqueting  table.  See  how  the  white 
drapery  of  snow  glistens  through  the  deep  rows  of  mount- 
ainous statuary ;  notice  too  the  sun's  line  drawn  along  the 
billowy  crests,  while  dusk  keeps  shading  more  deeply  the 
slants  belpw ;  nearer  the  tops  that  lustrous  line  is  always 
climbing ;  now  it  quite  touches  the  shoulders  of  the  tallest 
white-draped  guests  sitting  there  in  stately  order.  But 
in  the  midst  of  them  stands  their  king,  ancient  Basilicon, 
towering  far  above  all  the  others  in  proud  majesty,  the 
Jupiter  of  this  divine  throng.  Beside  him,  indeed,  the 
rest  seem  to  sink  down  to  the  level  of  the  earth ;  sooa 
their  heads  are  covered  with  shadows,  bowed,  as  it  were, 
in  his  presence  and  slightly  muffled  ;  while  Apollo,  as  his 
grand  final  act  of  the  day  sets  on  the  white  brow  of  the 
mountain  king  a  golden  crown,  flashing  to  this  distance 
with  rubies  and  amethysts  amid  a  fitful  sparkle  of  snow 
diamonds.  That  regal  pageant  will  not  release  the  eye 
till  the  crown  with  all  its  brilliants  is  lifted  from  the  sum- 
mit into  the  sky,  and  there  just  above  the  peak  is  set  in 
the  clouds,  which  are  gilded  for  a  few  moments  and 
faintly  studded  with  gems  ;  then  the  clouds  too  fall  under 
a  deepening  shadow  which  converts  them  at  once  to  dim 
dragons  of  the  air.  It  is  a  sudden,  fearful  transforma- 
tion ;  startled  I  turn  around  to  retrace  my  steps  ;  the  pine 
woods  have  changed  to  a  dark  tangled  mass  of  serpentine 
monsters ;  above  the  tree  tops  is  a  faint  throbbing 


FKOM  MABCOPOULO    TO  AULIS.  145 

twilight  which  only  brings  into  stronger  relief  the  black 
funereal  conifers  pointing  in  ghostly  silence  upwards  to 
the  Heavens.  Do  not  be  scared,  but  I  had  to  shudder, 
and  I  hurried  past  the  woods  to  the  village  with  some- 
thing following  me  close  to  my  heels ;  through  the  dark 
lanes  I  wound  swiftly  to  my  quarters,  where  I  burst  open 
the  door  in  some  perturbation,  a  demon  being  ready  to 
grasp  me  just  as  I  sprang  across  the  sill. 

But  as  I  enter,  behold !  there  is  the  blazing  fire  in  the 
hearth,  with  the  children  sporting  around  it ;  the  table  is 
spread  on  the  floor,  Varvouillya  is  raking  the  clams  from 
the  hot  ashes,  the  host  is  sitting,  cross-legged  on  the  mat, 
with  the  demijohn  of  recinato  at  his  side,  I  squat  down  in 
my  place,  and  the  symposium  begins  anew.  But  things 
may  be  repeated,  words  ought  not  to  be ;  good  dinners 
can  be  repeated  often,  good  descriptions  of  dinner  sate 
soon  —  one  is  enough.  So  this  second  festivity,  though 
quite  as  merry  as  the  first,  may  be  forever  chained  down 
in  the  dark  prison  of  the  Silences.  But  to-morrow  is  a 
day  of  rich  promise  ;  I  predict  that  the  sun  will  shine,  the 
birds  will  sing,  the  high  waters  will  run  out,  and  the 
traveler,  light-hearted  and  light-footed,  will  shoulder  his 
knapsack  once  more,  and  will  follow  the  bright  image 
fleeing  before  him  along  the  banks  of  beautiful  blue 
Euripus. 


VII.  FROM  MARCOPOULO   TO  AULIS. 

Two  nights  and  one  day  I  had  remained  with  the  host 
of  Marcopoulo,  when  early  in  the  morning  of  the  second 
day  I  asked  him  for  his  bill.  Five  francs  he  replied. 
Without  a  grumble  I  handed  him  a  piece  of  Greek  paper 
money  representing  that  sum ;  then  taking  a  final  sip  of 
recinato  with  him  I  prepared  to  set  out.  At  his  request 
I  promised  to  give  him  and  his  house  a  good  name,  which 
I  hope  I  have  not  failed  to  do. 

Varvouillya  who  was  also  going  to  Aulis  on  his  way  to 

10 


146  A    WALK  Itf  HELLAS. 

Chalkis  and  Thebes,  had  already  gotten  his  two  donkeys 
in  trim  and  had  started  a  little  before  me.  Soon  we  are 
among  the  hills  green  with  early  spring  and  fresh  with  the 
recent  shower  ;  the  rising  sun  is  beginning  to  reach  out  to 
us  over  the  mountain  tops  and  fling  into  our  faces  his  first 
handful  of  rays.  You  would  say  that  Nature  just  now 
is  rubbing  her  eyes,  about  to  leap  out  of  bed  into  the 
happy  daylight.  At  her  during  this  operation,  the  traveler 
will  gaze  with  unabashed  joy  and  behold  beauties  never 
revealed  to  the  garish  mid-day.  So  for  a  moment  imagine 
yourself  to  be  the  traveler,  as  he  passes  along  looking  up 
to  the  illuminated  summits,  and  peering  down  into  the 
verdant  valleys,  while  he  snuffs  the  delicate  fragrance  of 
the  pine  on  the  morning  air. 

Varvouillya  walks  also  for  some  distance,  but  he  enjoys 
the  luxury  of  riding  far  more,  and  soon  mounts  the  back 
of  one  of  his  little  donkeys.  These  have  but  a  slight 
burden,  consisting  merely  of  a  saddle,  two  or  three  blan- 
kets and  some  provision  for  our  luncheon.  This  Greek 
saddle  is  a  curiosity.  It  is  a  rude  scaffolding  made  of 
cross  pieces  and  placed  on  the  back  of  the  donkey ;  it  can 
be  straddled  by  no  mortal  rider  but  only  by  the  Gods. 
Therefore  a  man  when  he  mounts  must  sit  in  it  like  a 
chair,  with  both  feet  hanging  down  on  one  side.  1  never 
saw  a  Greek  rider  that  did  not  keep  his  feet  swinging  to 
and  fro,  and  at  intervals  thrust  his  heels  into  the  withers 
of  the  animal,  which  would  respond  not  by  hastening  its 
pace,  but  by  dropping  back  its  ears  in  defiant  humor. 

Thus  Varvouillya  springs  upon  the  donkey  and  settles 
down  into  the  saddle  as  if  taking  his  seat  in  his  customary 
chair;  with  shoulders  slightly  inclined  he  sits  there,  in 
dreamy  relaxation  of  features ;  his  steel-gray  hair  falls 
below  his  close-fitting  cap,  now  somewhat  soiled  around 
the  edges ;  feet,  dressed  in  red-leathered,  sharp-pointed 
pumps,  are  swinging  stockingless,  to  and  fro,  in  alternate 
oscillation ;  what  is  he,  brigand  or  honest  man  ?  He  pro- 
fesses to  be  a  carrier  of  merchandise  through  these  parts  ; 
evidently  he  is  a  very  different  person  from  the  merchant 
Aristides  ;  I  do  not  deny  being  a  little  dubious  about  him. 
Still  he  is  very  friendly,  he  has  repeatedly  asked  me  to 


FEOM  MAECOPOULO   TO  AULIS.  147 

ride,  but  at  present  I  much  prefer  the  exhilaration  of 
walking.  The  gait  of  the  little  donkey  is  slow ;  I  pass  on 
in  advance,  then  wait,  sitting  down  upon  some  seat  of  the 
graphs  to  look  at  an  attractive  view,  or  take  a  note. 
Still  the  rider's  feet  keep  going  backwards  and  forwards, 
and,  whenever  the  donkey  stops  for  a  passing  bite  at 
some  green  bunch  of  leaves  along  the  roadside,  he  gives 
a  smart  kick  with  his  heels,  accompanied  by  a  deep 
grunt  of  reproof. 

Soon  we  descend  into  an  extensive  plain  and  cross  a 
small  stream  whose  high  waters  have  pretty  well  run  out ; 
this  is  an  encouraging  sign,  for  we  have  been  in  some 
anxiety  about  the  fording  of  the  Asopus.  The  fields  are 
musical  with  larks  through  whose  song  we  pass  till  the 
road  comes  to  the  sea,  the  Euripus.  Along  the  coast  just 
at  the  edge  of  the  water  the  road  leads  us  for  miles ; 
under  the  slight  breeze  the  surface  is  in  a  gentle  tremor, 
and  the  ripples  beat  up  the  shelving  shore  incessantly 
breaking  at  our  feet.  The  wavelets  are  good  company, 
yet  quite  different  from  the  society  of  the  running  brook  ; 
they  have  a  sort  of  absorbing  fascination,  as  you  sit  and 
gaze  at  them,  for  you  are  caught  into  their  rhythm,  and 
break  on  the  shore  along  with  them.  That  regularity  of 
the  ripple,  that  ever-recurring  beat  of  the  sea  becomes 
one  with  the  throb  of  your  heart,  with  the  flight  of  your 
moments  which,  like  these  wavelets,  roll  up  from  the  in- 
finite sea  of  Time,  break  to  pieces  on  the  shore  of  the 
Present,  then  vanish  into  Eternity.  It  is  never  difficult 
for  the  soul  to  be  absorbed  into  the  sea  and  become  har- 
monious with  its  waters  ;  the  sea  is  indeed  naught  but  an 
immense  musical  instrument,  one  may  imagine  it  to  be 
a  colossal  bass-viol  which  sets  the  world  throbbing  to  its 
notes.  Thus  the  minutes  of  life  fall  to-day  into  a  measure 
with  the  vibrations  of  fair  Euripus,  whose  billowy  mirror 
reflects  the  two  wayfarers,  who  are  passing  on  its  stony 
beach ;  at  this  moment  I  behold  the  form  of  Varvouillya 
crumpled  in  the  wavelets  with  feet  still  swinging  to  and 
fro  on  his  dopkey. 

It  seems  but  a  short  blue  span  to  the  other  side  of  the 
strait  where  the  mountains  of  Euboea  rise  up,  snow- 


148  A   WALK  Itf  HELLAS. 

capped,  dazzling  in  the  sun.  They  extend  northward  as 
far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  forming  a  kind  of  back-bone  to 
the  island.  From  the  summits  comes  a  chill  air,  when  no 
current  of  wind  interferes  from  another  direction.  A 
thin,  narrow  cloud  lies  on  the  side  of  the  mountain,  pulled 
into  transparent  fibers,  like  a  flock  of  wool ;  above  this 
cloudlet  is  the  snowy  line  of  tops,  no  longer  looking  like 
marble  Gods  at  the  banquet  as  they  did  yesterdaj^,  but 
rather  like  the  white  teeth  of  the  upturned  jaw  of  a  mon- 
ster, ready  to  snap  at  the  deities  of  the  skies.  Far  above 
all  the  other  summits  towers  the  monarch  of  the  mount- 
ainous realm  —  called  by  my  companion  Basilicon  or  the 
Royal  Mount,  but  more  commonly  named  Delphi  —  richly 
ornamented  on  his  sides  with  those  silvery  clouds,  and 
wearing  a  crown  made  of  flashing  snow-crystals  and  sun- 
beams. 

Above  our  heads  the  crows  are  flying ;  they  must  not 
be  forgotten,  the  naughty  crows  of  Greek  mockery. 
Their  cry  seems  somewhat  different  from  what  it  is  at 
home ;  more  garrulous,  chattering,  spiteful.  In  irregular 
lines  they  streak  the  sky  beyond  the  mountains,  and  pass 
overhead  with  so  much  angry  disputation  that  they  must 
be  going  to  hold  a  congress  or  agora  somewhere  among 
the  hills  of  Boeotia.  The  crow  may  be  taken  as  a  comic 
bird,  full  of  caprice  and  infinite  noisy  loquacity  —  a  true 
type  of  certain  phases  of  Greek  rhetorical  volubility. 

As  we  skirt  round  the  shore  of  the  Euripus,  a  town  ap- 
pears off  to  the  left  several  miles,  lying  calmly  at  a  slight 
elevation  along  the  hill-side.  It  is  Oropus,  the  home  of 
the  merchant  Aristides,  and  of  the  schoolmaster  Aristo- 
teles  ;  I  shall  not  be  able  to  pay  them  a  visit  and  take  you 
along  with  me  as  I  had  hoped ;  these  worthy  names  we 
shall  have  to  dismiss  from  our  Greek  journey.  In  an- 
tiquity Oropus  was  an  important  post  during  the  border 
wars  between  Athens  and  Thebes ;  in  modern  times  its 
main  distinction  is  derived  from  Takos  the  brigand  chief 
who  stayed  there  several  days  with  his  prisoners.  He  and 
his  band  went  to  church  while  in  the  town  on  Palm  Sun- 
day, and  like  good  Christians  devoutly  performed  the 
prescribed  rites ;  all  of  them  obtained  branches  of  the 


FEOM  MAIiCOPOULO    TO  AULIS.  149 

palm  from  the  hands  of  the  priest,  and,  in  accordance 
with  a  religious  custom  of  the  country,  switched  one  an- 
other for  good  luck  with  the  holy  sprig.  Thus  they 
thought  to  secure  the  favor  of  Heaven  for  their  enter- 
prise ;  but  despair  not,  ye  true  believers,  for  the  ancient 
Goddess  Nemesis  has  again  arisen,  angry,  inexorable, 
and  at  this  moment  is  silently  casting  her  net  from  these 
hills  ;  the  Greek  soldiers  are  approaching  in  secrecy  and 
have  begun  to  surround  the  town. 

But  let  us  pass  by  the  work  of  the  Goddess  for  a  while, 
and  notice  this  plain  locked  in  by  hills,  of  oblong  shape 
with  the  sea  stretched  in  front.  It  is  fertile,  stubble 
fields  dot  it  here  and  there ;  it  brings  back  to  a  certain 
degree  the  impression  of  Marathon,  and  is  large  enough 
to  maintain  quite  a  community,  if  well  cultivated.  It  is 
moreover  separated  from  its  neighboring  plains  by  hill 
and  sea,  giving  to  it  a  certain  physical  independence, 
which  anciently  was  supplemented  by  a  political  inde- 
pendence. 

This  fact  brings  up  the  reflection  which  has  often  been 
made  in  regard  to  the  geography  of  Greece,  that  it  shows 
the  character  of  the  Greek  people  as  distinctly  as  their 
spiritual  products.  But  to  the  traveler  these  natural 
features  with  their  strong  suggestions  become  a  living 
presence  which  moves  at  his  side  with  every  step,  and 
gives  a  new  utterance  at  each  passage  of  a  range  of  hills. 
The  whole  country  is  cut  up  into  plains  and  valleys  often 
capable  of  high  cultivation,  separated  from  each  other  by 
chains  of  mountains  which  it  is  not  easy  to  pass.  If  you 
could  look  down  into  the  country  from  above  with  a  bird's 
e}Te,  you  would,  ^behold  a  territory  hollowed  out  like  the 
honeycomb,  with  cells  full  of  honey,  ready  to  nourish  the 
offspring  of  its  busy  bees.  There  are  no  great  plains  like 
the  valley  of  the  Euphrates  or  the  Mississippi  ;  the  Earth 
is  roused  from  her  flat  indifference  into  tender  embraces, 
embosoming  these  clusters  of  small  depressions ;  all 
Greece,  you  would  say,  is  but  a  group  of  rock-protected 
bird's  nests,  being  in  antiquity  mostly  those  of  nightin- 
gales. 

Just  in  this  physical  division  lies  the  image  of  the  lead- 


150  A    WALK  IF  HELLAS. 

ing  trait  of  the  Greek  nation.  Each  of  these  separate 
valleys  had  its  own  town,  sometimes  several  of  them, 
whose  strongest  characteristic  was  autonomy  as  they 
called  it,  that  is,  the  right  of  governing  themselves  accord- 
ing to  their  own  laws  and  institutions.  Still  further,  each 
of  these  communities  had  its  own  special  forms  of  wor- 
ship, its  own  manners,  even  its  own  costume,  and  it  sang  its 
own  song.  Every  village  was,  therefore,  an  independent 
whole  and  was  different  from  every  other  village  in  Greece. 
Such  was  the  boon  of  individual  self-development,  now 
born  into  the  world  ;  yet  this  very  boon  was  the  source  of 
the  disunion  among  the  Greeks,  which  at  last  caused 
their  downfall. 

If  we  elevate  this  trait  into  an  expression  for  thought, 
we  may  call  it  individuality.  Thus,  primarily  the  Greek 
territory  was  individualized  ;  then  the  Greek  man  sought 
a  bodily  individuality  by  special  gymnastic  training ;  in  a 
still  higher  way  he  strove  for  a  spiritual  individuality 
through  the  Fine  Arts  and  Philosophy ;  but  above  all  his 
ideal  of  the  State  was  a  political  individuality,  comprising 
his  own  community,  with  full  autonomy  s 

Here  then  Greece  stands  in  the  strongest  contrast  to  the 
Orient  with  its  immense  plains  capable  of  nourishing  mill- 
ions of  toiling  bondmen,  equal  simply  in  servitude,  as  we 
behold  in  the  valley  of  the  Ganges,  Indus,  Euphrates, 
Nile.  In  them  is  the  natural  home  of  despotism,  where 
man  is  as  level,  low  and  uniform  as  the  plain  which  he 
tills.  These  Greek  hills  enveloping  Marathon  will  not 
permit  subjection ;  they  seek  to  shake  off  an  Oriental 
sway  by  their  very  nature ;  nor  on  the  other  hand  will 
they  suffer  a  dull  dead  quality  among  the  people  dwelling 
under  their  protecting  summits.  In  such  a  laud  freedom 
can  be  born  and  cradled. 

But  the  march  of  empire  has  passed  from  the  far  East 
through  the  Greek  mountains  into  the  far  West,  and  in 
this  latter  territory  civilization  has  again  settled  down  into 
a  plain  vaster  than  any  in-  the  Orient  —  the  valley  of  the 
Mississippi.  That  the  center  of  the  world's  culture  is 
destined  to  be  in  that  valley  at  some  period,  is  pretty  gen- 
erally conceded,  even  in  Europe ;  —  but  in  what  form  ? 


FROM  MAIiCOPOULO    TO  AULIS.  151 

The  Illinois  prairie  merely  as  a  thing  of  nature,  means 
despotism  as  much  as  the  valley  of  the  Nile ;  certainly  it 
does  not  signify  freedom,  as  is  sometimes  stated,  though 
it  may  signify  equality,  the  dead  equality  of  its  own  sur- 
face. Therefore  for  us  arises  this  question :  Are  the  in- 
stitutions of  man  so  far  developed  that  they  can  overcome 
this  gigantic  nature  and  convert  it  into  a  perpetual  realm 
of  freedom  ?  All  of  us  believe  that  they  are  and  that  we 
already  possess  these  very  institutions. 

But  notice  again  this  Greek  landscape  and  connect  it 
with  our  own ;  it  is  the  mediatorial  element  between  the 
East  and  the  West.  The  Greek  mountains  fought  at 
Thermopylae  and  Plataea  quite  as  much  as  the  Greek  men. 
That  vast  Oriental  plain  pressing  down  over  the  laud  like 
an  iron  sky  was  pierced  by  the  mountain  tops  of  Greece 
in  a  thousand  points  and  shivered  to  atoms.  Nature  was 
there  the  ally  of  man,  nursed  him,  protected  him ;  con- 
sequently her  visage  of  freedom  was  taken  up  by  the 
Greek  into  his  institutions,  and  thus  has  become  the  pos- 
session of  the  race  forever,  for  institutions  are  the  abiding 
element  of  the  World's  History.  Yes,  though  the  asser- 
tion seem  strange,  the  image  of  the  Greek  landscape  has 
come  down  to  us  in  America,  and  is  the  chief  aid  in  solv- 
ing our  political  problem,  which  is  to  combine  the  auton- 
omy of  the  Greek  world  with  the  territory  of  the  Orient. 

But  the  second  leading  element  of  the  geographical 
character  of  Greece  must  not  be  omitted ;  here  it  is  at 
our  feet  and  is  seldom  out  of  our  sight  —  it  is  the  sea. 
These  rocky  walls  with  their  tendency  to  crystallize  into  a 
solitary  exclusiveness  are  broken  down  and  dissolved  by 
the  sea.  Just  as  you  behold  mountains  everywhere  in 
Greece,  soxyou  behold  from  the  hights  almost  everywhere 
the  sea.  What  the  mountains  separate,  is  joined  by  the 
infinite  number  of  straits,  gulfs,  bays,  which  bite  into  the 
coast  on  every  side.  The  sea  is  indeed  the  world's  high- 
way and  the  world's  freedom ;  no  chains  can  be  laid  upon 
it,  no  castle  can  command  it,  no  robber  can  seize  it  and 
lay  a  toll  upon  exchange  though  it  be  as  free  to  the  pirate 
as  to  anybody  else.  The  old  Greek  belonged  quite  as 
much  to  the  sea  as  to  the  land ;  the  physical  character  of 


152  A    WALK  IF  HELLAS. 

the  one  gave  him  intercourse  abroad,  the  physical  character 
of  the  other  gave  him  independence  at  home. 

Suddenly  our  reflections  are  stopped  by  the  banks  of  a 
stream,  muddy  and  swollen,  which  had  been  hitherto  hid- 
den from  view  by  the  reeds  of  the  plain.  It  is  now  mani- 
fest that  we  did  well  in  lying  over  yesterday,  since  the 
marks  of  much  higher  water  than  the  present  stage  are 
visible  in  the  tortuous  line  of  sticks  and  scum  along  the 
banks.  But  there  is  still  a  strong  current  in  the  channel, 
and  of  course  there  is  no  bridge.  What  is  to  be  done  ? 
Varvouillya  offers  one  of  his  donkeys  ;  but  I  am  not  will- 
ing to  trust  myself  on  its  little  low  back,  with  my  feet 
quite  touching  the  water ;  moreover  the  donkey  is  as 
likely  to  be  swept  off  its  legs  or  fall  as  I  am.  I  prefer  to 
take  my  bath  alone,  if  such  is  to  be  my  fate ;  accordingly 
I  prepare  for  the  only  other  way  —  that  of  fording. 

The  stream  is  the  famous  Asopus,  still  called  by  the 
same  name  as  in  antiquity.  Manv  a  conflict  has  taken 
place  along  its  banks,  of  which  the  most  celebrated  was 
the  battle  of  Plataea,  fought  farther  up  in  Boeotia.  It  is 
ordinarily  a  sluggish  reedy  stream,  fed  from  the  springs 
and  snows  of  Mount  Kithaeron ,  yet  liable  to  rapid  rise 
from  showers  ;  armies  have  been  suddenly  stopped  on  its 
banks  by  a  fall  of  rain.  Attica  sought  to  make  this 
stream  its  boundary  towards  Boeotia,  hence  its  chief  his- 
torical significance. 

Dignity  is  not  one  of  the  articles  which  the  traveler 
must  take  with  him  in  a  trip  through  Greece,  it  is  alto- 
gether the  most  burdensome  article  he  can  carry.  In 
short,  I  pulled  off  my  shoes,  tied  them  to  my  knapsack 
like  a  true  pedestrian,  and  waded  into  classic  Asopus. 
Mercy  on  us,  how  cold  is  that  water!  Rightly  so,  for  it 
is  largely  composed  of  melted  snow  from  Mount  Kithae- 
ron. Then  too  the  sharp  edge  of  a  pebble  presses  into  the 
bare  flesh  of  the  foot,  causing  the  wader  to  drop  quite  to 
the  surface  of  the  stream,  in  order  to  get  a  little  relief 
from  that  unseen  enemy.  For  crossing  we  had  selected  a 
place  rather  wide  just  above  a  swift  narrow  current,  cor- 
rectly surmising  that  it  was  the  shallowest  and  least  rapid 
point.  But  in  the  middle  of  the  stream,  the  current  was 


FROM  MAECOPOULO    TO  AULIS.  153 

still  vigorous,  and  the  heels,  became  remarkably  light, 
with  a  continual  tendency  to  fly  up  where  the  head  was. 
But  I  splashed  through  without  any  accident,  Varvouillya 
came  out  safely,  aud  the  donkeys  feeling  their  way  with 
unusual  care,  threw  back  their  long  ears  in  great  aston- 
ishment and  bravely  made  the  passage. 

So  we  forded  classic  Asopus,  and  were  exalted  to  a 
triumphant  vein  by  its  success  ;  it  was  indeed  a  memor- 
able feat  and  in  memorable  company.  Thus,  thinks  the 
enthusiastic  traveler  looking  back  at  the  boiling  current, 
must  many  an  ancient  hero  have  crossed  this  stream. 
Those  Homeric  chieftains,  on  their  way  from  Pelops'  isle 
to  the  grand  muster  at  Aulis,  whither  we  too  are  bound, 
could  not  avoid  passing  here  ;  behold  them  in  white  folds, 
splashing  through  the  turbid  waters  ;  Agamemnon  him- 
self,  king  of  men,  coming  up  from  golden  Mycenae,  is, 
you  can  plainly  see,  one  of  them. 

But  it  is  almost  an  absolute  certainty  that  Socrates,  not 
a  dialectician  on  the  streets  of  Athens  now,  but  a  heavy- 
armed  soldier  or  Hoplite  in  the  Athenian  ranks  marched 
through  this  plain  against  the  Theban  foe,  came  to  this 
river  and  had  to  wade  through  its  muddy  current.  But 
the  waters,  I  surmise,  did  in  no  way  cool  his  philosophic 
ardor,  though  they  were  of  melting  snow,  nor  did  they 
prevent  him  from  applying  his  all-subduing  elenchus  or 
cross-examining  thumb-screw  to  the  fellow-soldier  at  his 
side,  the  tanner  Hyperbolus,  there  just  in  the  middle  of 
the  chilling  stream.  But  onward  the  philosopher  marches 
bravely  and  disputes,  till  late  one  afternoon  his  country- 
men are  consummately  whipped  by  those  whom  they  call 
swinish  Thebans,  on  the  field  of  Delium.  The  philosopher 
too  is  defeated'  in  spite  of  his  elenchus ;  for  what  good 
will  the  dialectical  instrument  now  do,  brandished  in  the 
faces  of  angry  Thebans  ranked  twenty-five  spears  deep  ? 
The  philosopher  had  to  run,  run  like  the  rest  of  his  people 
aud  run  hard  too  —  yet  after  showing  prodigies  of  valor, 
as  was  always  -said  by  his  enthusiastic  friends  narrating 
the  occurrence;- ;  Indeed  it  was  the  first  time  that  he  was 
ever  compelled  to  turn  his  back  on  the  face  of  a  foe ; 
these  are  manifestly  none  of  those  foes  of  the  market- 


154  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

place,  whom  he  never  failecj  to  make  shout  fn  excruciating 
contradiction  by  the  torture  of  his  thumb-screw. 

Thus  Socrates  the  philosopher  returns  to  classic  Asopus 
in  a  great  hurry,  much  greater  than  when  he  crossed  it 
going  forward  to  Delium.  Some  time  in  the  night  he  must 
have  arrived  here ;  without  hesitation  he  dashed  into  the 
current  wrapped  in  demon-breeding  darkness,  possibly 
beholding  at  his  back  phantasms  of  Thebans  in  angry 
pursuit ;  other  soldiers  that  I  know  of  have  had  a  tendency 
to  behold  similar  phantasms  under  similar  circumstances. 
At  least  the  probability  is  that  this  time  he  did  not  stop  a 
moment  in  the  middle  of  the  stream,  nor  can  we  imagine 
him  now  drawing  out  that  wonderful  instrument  of  his  in 
order  to  use  it  upon  his  neighbor  who  is  evidently  in  as 
great  a  hurry  as  himself.  Still  destiny  bids  that  the  phil- 
osopher be  preserved ;  hereafter  we  shall  hear  of  him  at 
Athens  when  this  night's  hurried  tramp  is  over ;  not  by 
thrust  of  Theban  spear  or  by  a  watery  death  in  the 
Asopus  shall  he  perish,  but  by  the  cup  of  hemlock  — 
rather  the  most  glorious  death  after  that  one  other,  which 
has  yet  been  recorded.  But  what  the  philosophic  con- 
sciousness was  evolving  in  the  shadowy  night  when  the 
plunge  was  made  into  the  chilly  waters  is  something 
which  we  would  all  like  to  know. 

Varvouillya  gets  ready  to  go  forward  while  I  continue 
to  exult  in  the  victory  over  the  river-god:  whereat 
the  j^ellow- haired  divinity  seems  to  grow  more  angry  in 
his  turbulent  tossings  and  writhings  at  my  feet.  Two  ped- 
estrians, Greeks,  come  to  the  opposite  bank  while  we  are 
waiting,  and  attempt  the  passage.  One  of  them  in  white 
fustanella,  insists  upon  trying  where  the  current  is  narrow 
but  swift,  notwithstanding  the  warnings  of  Varvouillya. 
The  water  dashes  around  his  naked  calves,  he  begins  to 
back  out,  but  it  is  too  late,  his  feet  are  whirled  up  by  the 
current  and  he  falls  with  a  splash,  down  he  floats  on  the 
surface  of  the  stream.  With  violent  gestures  he  seeks  to 
rescue  himself,  and  is  soon  washed  up  against  a  muddy 
shrub  which  he  catches  hold  of  and  crawls  out  on  the 
bank.  What  now  shall  we  say  to  the  shining  white  fustan- 
ella after  a  bath  in  turbid  Asopus  and  a  couch  upon  its  allu- 


FROM  MARCOPOULO    TO  AULIS.  155 

vial  banks  ?  He  looks  like  some  ancient  statue,  just  dug 
up  from  its  earthy  bed,  and  now  for  the  first  time  since 
many  centuries  exposed  to  sunlight,  revealing  many  a 
stain  in  the  solid  marble.  The  angry  rive r-god  has  shown 
his  power,  but  not  upon  our  company ;  so  we  still  exult 
with  mingled  pity  for  our  less  lucky  fellow  mortal. 

The  unfortunate  man  had  in  his  hand  a  bundle  which  is 
now  gaily  dancing  down  the  surface  of  the  stream,  till  at 
last  it  is  fished  out  by  his  companion.  Still  he  lies  there 
on  the  bank  in  white  fustanella,  riot  so  white  now  —  the 
joyless  Greek,  that  stained  piece  of  marble,  sunning  him- 
self—  waiting  perchance  for  Apollo  to  instill  into  him 
courage  sufficient  to  attempt  the  passage  a  second  time. 
Then  both  of  them,  with  some  trepidation  to  be  sure,  ford 
the  river  successfully  under  the  direction  of  Varvouillya, 
just  where  we  had  crossed  it.  They  turn  out  to  be  two 
small  traders  who  are  also  going  to  Chaikis  for  Monday's 
bazaar. 

Now  we  begin  the  journey  anew,  six  of  us  together, 
four  men  and  two  donkeys.  These  small,  patient 
animals  again  attract  my  sympathy  and  admiration;  I 
have  told  you  a  little  about  them  before,  but  not  by  any 
means  enough,  judging  them  by  their  importance.  Calm- 
ly they  pass  before  us,  heavy-eyed,  much-enduring,  with 
their  long  ears  now  erect,  now  dropping  backwaixls  ;  they 
have  the  appearance  of  overgrown  rabbits,  moving  in 
single  files  through  the  bushes.  Their  thin  legs  twirl  so 
quickly,  with  such  a  dainty  trip  that  there  is  a  kind  of 
dance  in  their  tread,  two  of  them  now  stepping  in  chorus ; 
still  they  can  never  be  brought  to  a  trot.  The  donkey 
has,  in  proportion  to  his  body,  a  large  head,  which  is 
necessary  to  contain  his  enormous  gift  of  obstinacy. 
But  it  is  the  eye  which  is  the  most  characteristic  thing 
about  him,  showing  power  but  indifference  ;  out  of  it  he 
has  a  look  of  oriental  resignation  to  the  will  of  fate ;  let 
come  what  comes,  is  his  motto,  I  am  going  to  remain  a  — 
donkey.  But  that  fate  is  now  behind  him,  ever  ready  to 
overtake  him,  in  the  shape  of  a  long  gad  in  the  hands  of 
Varvouillya  who  unmercifully  belabors  the  poor  beast  of 
destiny.  Still  the  donkey  takes  it  all  as  a  matter  of 


156  A    WALK  7,V  HELLAS. 

course,  squirms  a  little,  possibly  steps  for  a  moment  with 
a  quicker  gait,  then  settles  down  into  his  old  tread  with  a 
complete  resignation  to  the  strokes  of  fate.  Out  of  his 
spare  flesh  a  bone  protrudes  at  the  haunch,  covered  with 
a  very  thin  coat  of  hair,  but  made  callous  by  blows  from 
aforetime  ;  upon  that  protruding  bone  Varvouillya  directs 
his  strokes  with  a  vigor  of  arm  and  certainty  of  aim 
which  at  first  make  me  shiver ;  but  I  soon  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  I  was  hurt  worse  than  the  animal,  and  so 
began  to  stop  wasting  my  emotional  nature.  Indiffer- 
ence to  the  blows  of  destiny  is  the  prime  fact  of  the 
donkey. 

A  curious  incident  now  began  enacting  itself  under  my 
eyes :  our  two  new  companions  also  started  to  drive  the 
donkeys.  So  those  three  men  passed  along  the  highway, 
grunting,  yelling  and  beating  the  two  little  animals,  which 
courageously  performed  their  part  of  obstinacy.  The 
strangers  were  quite  as  zealous  in  their  new  duties  as 
Varvouillya  himself  who  accepted  their  assistance  as  a 
matter  of  course.  This,  then,  I  infer  to  be  one  of  the 
customs  of  the  country :  when  you  meet  a  man  on  the 
road  you  must  show  your  good  will  by  helping  him  drive 
his  donkeys.  Moreover  the  Greek  driver  has  a  peculiar 
language  in  his  dealings  with  his  charge,  which  with  much 
philological  curiosity  the  traveler  will  at  once  set  about 
learning.  It  is  mainly  composed  of  a  great  variety  of 
grunts,  all  of  which  have  been  handed  down  from  the  an- 
cients, I  hold,  like  every  thing  which  the  exhilarated 
vision  beholds  in  Greece  ;  for  instance,  to  stop  is  a  grunt 
with  the  falling  inflection ;  to  go  is  a  grunt  with  the  rising 
inflection ;  to  turn  aside  is  a  double  grunt  with  an  aspi- 
rate. This  tongue  has  a  number  of  delicate  shadings,  all 
indicated  by  the  grunt.  I  might  be  asked  to  give  you 
some  practical  illustration  of  the  language,  but  I  find  that 
I  can  no  longer  catch  the  true  Attic  accent  of  those  sounds. 

Thus  we  wound  along  the  white  edge  of  the  blue  silken 
ribbon  of  Euripus,  flashing  in  the  sunlight  and  rolling 
gentle  wavelets  which  break  at  our  feet.  Sometimes  the 
waters  would  move  out  of  sight,  when  we  entered  a  thicket 
or  passed  behind  a  hill ;  but  soon  they  would  leap  into 


FROM  MAECOPOULO    TO  AULIS.  157 

yiew  again  with  a  laugh.  But,  would  you  believe  it? 
Such  is  the  power  of  human  example,  and  the  absorbing 
fascination  of  this  Greek  climate  —  not  an  hour  had  passed 
before  I  too  began  driving  the  donkeys  with  the  others. 
I  even  caught  myself  raising  my  staff  to  give  the  blow  of 
destiny  to  the  perverse  little  beast  which  had  stopped  just 
in  the  path  before  me  without  any  perceptible  cause.  But 
Pallas  Athena  held  my  arm,  and  Varvouillya  anticipated 
me  with  his  long  gad.  Yet  in  speech  I  falter  not,  I  prac- 
tice with  diligence  the  new  language,  and  try  to  imagine 
what  ancient  worthy  could  have  done  the  same  thing  in 
the  same  place.  So  all  four  of  us  pass  along  the  road, 
grunting,  shouting,  and  talking  to  the  music  of  the  beauti- 
ful blue  Euripus  which  rolls  at  our  feet. 

Our  company  approaches  Dclisi,  ancient  Delium,  now 
a  small  poor  hamlet,  but  once  it  shone  with  a  temple  of 
Apollo  lying  at  the  edge  of  the  sea  and  viewing  white 
graceful  forms  of  column  and  frieze  in  the  tranquil  waters. 
To  the  rear  of  it  is  a  low  succession  of  hills  inclosing  a 
small  plain ;  somewhere  upon  these  hills  the  battle  of 
Delium  must  have  been  fought,  now  chiefly  famous  on 
account  of  the  presence  of  Socrates.  A  very  unimport- 
ant fact  at  that  time,  merely  one  Hoplite  in  the  Athenian 
ranks,  but  now  the  best-known  incident  of  the  battle : 
thus  do  great  men  often  lend  to  events  their  whole  dis- 
tinction. Still  there  is  another  and  far  deeper  meaning  to 
the  struggle  at  Delium  than  the  accidental  presence  of  the 
philosopher ;  for  this  combat  is  typical,  and  gives  an 
image  of  all  Greece  at  its  date.  It  is  the  time  of  the 
Peloponnesian  War  and  the  Greek  world  is  perishing 
through  internal  dissolution  ;  formerly  it  had  united  and 
maintained  itself  against  the  external  power  of  Persia,  but 
now  it  has  turned  its  hand  against  itself  and  is  in  process 
of  being  destroyed  from  within.  Such  is  the  great  trans- 
ition of  Greek  history  —  just  this  transition  from  the 
plains  of  Marathon  to  the  hills  of  Delium ; ,  the  sympa- 
thetic  traveler  will  leave  the  former  with  the  triumphal 
notes  of  victory  still  ringing  in  his  ears,  but  he  will  pass 
the  latter  rent  by  an  inward  sorrow  and  dissonance,  pre- 
monitions of  Hellenic  decay  and  dissolution. 


158  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

This  result  sprang  from  the  extreme  application  of  the 
fundamental  Greek  principle  —  the  principle  of  autonomy. 
With  it  alone,  in  its  one-sidedness  the  political  unity  of 
the  Hellenic  race  was  impossible  ;  a  thousand  limits  were 
thus  created,  and  were  perpetually  rasping  against  one 
another.  Hence  these  independent  communities,  left  to 
themselves  and  without  the  fear  of  any  external  power, 
began  to  grind  in  violent  struggle.  For  wherever  there  is 
limitation,  there  is  sure  to  be  conflict;  both  men  and 
states  are  impatient  under  restraints.  Now  if  we,  with 
that  bird's  eye,  look  down  again  from  above  into  the 
honeycomb  of  Greece,  we  shall  behold  all  the  little  cells  in 
fierce  agitation ;  each  is  trying  to  burst  its  bonds  or  main- 
tain them,  against  some  intruder.  Then  these  small  com- 
munities group  themselves  around  two  leaders,  Athens 
and  Sparta,  though  not  without  many  jealousies,  bicker- 
ings and  acts  of  violence.  Still  further  this  dualism  of 
headship  enters  every  village  and  splits  it  into  two  bitter 
factions.  What  now  has  become  of  the  harmonious 
Greek  world  with  its  nests  of  nightingales  ?  Terrific  dis- 
cord, with  the  screams  of  vultures  has  succeeded  —  of 
which  one  echo  is  still  resting  on  these  hills  of  Delium. 

Now  if  we  wish  to  grasp  in  our  thought  the  deep  seated 
source  of  this  calamitous  outcome  of  the  Hellenic  world, 
we  must  see  what  is  lacking  in  the  Greek  consciousness, 
especially  in  the  Greek  political  consciousness.  This  may 
be  expressed  in  one  word:  Recognition.  The  Greek 
community  would  not,  or  indeed  could  not,  recognize  the 
right  of  its  neighbor  to  be  just  as  good,  nay,  to  be  just 
the  same  as  its  own  right.  It  could  not  see  that  if  it  de- 
stro3red  the  autonomy  of  the  little  town  next  to  it,  it  was 
destroying  the  principle  of  its  own  autonomy.  It  was  a 
most  jealous  lover  of  its  own  freedom,  but  not  of  its 
neighbor's  freedom  ;  but  the  truth  of  logic  and  history  is 
that  the  freedom  of  its  neighbor  which  it  trampled  under 
foot,  was  at  bottom  its  own  freedom.  It  lacked  recogni- 
tion, yet  there  were  far-off  glimmerings  of  the  principle ; 
in  fact  this  principle  seemed  once  on  the  point  of  realiza- 
tion in  the  Achaean  League.  But  Greece  was  then  dying, 
and  it  never  had  the  insight  practically  that  right  is  uni- 


FEOM  MAECOPOULO    TO  AULI8.  159 

versal,  belongs  to  all  equally,  and  that  the  nation  which 
violates  it  in  another  is  violating  it  in  itself.  For  it  is 
thus  doing  a  deed  which  must  return  to  itself,  and  is  pre- 
paring itself  for  retribution  through  its  own  act.  Nemesis 
for  the  individual  the  Greeks  believed  in,  for  we  have 
already  seen  temples  to  that  Goddess,  but  they  knew  no 
Nemesis  for  the  State. 

It  is  not  difficu't,  with  the  modern  world  and  our  own 
form  of  government  before  our  eyes  to  point  out  the  solu- 
tion of  the  Greek  political  problem.  We  feel  that  the  Greeks 
needed  the  Confederacy  with  constitution  and  paramont 
governmental  powers,  whose  object  would  be  to  remove 
the  narrow  pinching  limits  on  the  one  hand,  and  on  the 
other  to  preserve  the  full  internal  autonomy  of  the  com- 
munity. Thus  the  small  state  would  be  all  Greece,  yet 
it  would  remain  itself.  One  half,  perhaps  the  nobler  half, 
the  Greek  seized  fully  and  carried  out,  namely  communal 
freedom,  local  self-government,  as  we  call  it;  But  the 
other  half  does  not  belong  to  his  consciousness,  had  not 
yet  risen  in  the  consciousness  of  the  world ;  twenty  cen- 
turies of  struggle  were  to  elapse  before  it  could  be 
realized.  His  political  system  perished  because  it  was  a 
half,  because  it  was  limited  to  the  boundaries  of  his  own 
little  state  —  for  it  is  the  law  of  existence  that  only  the 
whole  can  endure. 

The  battle  of  Delium  was  fought  between  the  Thebans 
and  Athenians,  two  Greek  neighbors  who  ought  to  have 
lived  harmoniously  together.  It  may  be  taken  as  an 
image  of  a  hundred  combats  during  that  wretched  war, 
and  it  illustrates  what  was  transpiring  on  nearly  every 
boundary  between  the  communities  of  Greece.  It  is 
therefore  a  type  reflecting  much,  if  we  look  into  its  depths 
and  gather  its  true  meaning ;  though  so  distant  in  time,  it 
still  seems  to  throw  these  hills  into  discordant  undulations. 
But  it  is  not  the  only  dissonance  heard  upon  this  spot, 
there  is  a  modern  note  of  horror  here  which  strangely 
mingles  with  that  ancient  clangor  of  arms. 

Varvouillya  suddenly  halted  his  mules  near  a  clump  of 
bushes  along  the  road ;  he  took  from  the  saddle  a  kind  of 
haversack  filled  with  bread  and  cheese,  and  prepared 


160  A  WALK  IX  HELLAS. 

lunch,  for  it  was  already  past  noon.  Our  two  new  com- 
panions were  invited  to  partake  with  us,  and  were  not  be- 
hind us  in  their  appreciation  of  the  frugal  meal.  When 
it  had  ended,  Varvouillya  rose  in  silence  and  walked 
a  few  yards  away,  then  he  turned  and  called  to  me : 
"  Here  the  English  lord  was  killed.  Yonder  another  was 
found  murdered.  Over  that  low  hill  Takos  came  from  the 
direction  of  Oropus  with  his  captives,  pursued  by  the 
Greek  soldiers.  When  he  found  that  he  could  not  escape 
with  his  prisoners,  he  killed  two  here  and  two  further  up." 
Saying  this,  the  speaker  stood  in  silence,  as  if  lost  for  a 
moment  in  revery,  nor  did  the  two  companions  manifest  a 
desire  to  say  any  thing  about  the  affair  on  this  spot,  though 
they  showed  that  they  knew  all  about  it  from  beginning 
to  end.  It  may  be  my  own  fancy,  but  I  could  not  help 
thinking  that  they  were  toxiched  with  a  slight  terror. 

But  such  is  the  final  act.  of  the  drama;  that  capture 
near  Pentelicus,  which  was  at  first  supposed  to  be  a  com- 
edy, has  turned  out  a  tragedy  of  the  bloodiest  kind. 
When  the  prisoners  had  been  assassinated  in  cold  blood, 
the  approaching  soldiers  opened  fire  upon  the  brigands  ; 
the  brother  of  Takos  with  seven  of  the  band  were  slain, 
and  four  others  were  taken  prisoners  ;  Takos  himself  with 
ten  of  the  band  escaped,  some  of  whom  were  afterwards 
caught,  a'nd  executed. 

This  event  has  injured  Greece  more  than  all  her  other 
faults  and  misdeeds  put  together ;  yet  it  is  hard  to  see 
how  the  Greek  government  can  be  blamed  for  the  occur- 
rence. Certainly  it  tried  to  prevent  the  crime  and  pun- 
ish the  criminals ;  the  band  did  not  belong  within  the 
borders  of  Greece,  and  had  been  hunted  from  place  to 
place  by  Greek  soldiers  before  Takos  suddenly  appeared 
at  Pentelicus.  The  chief  reproach  which  can  be  cast  up- 
on it  is,  that  it  paid  too  much  attention  to  English  advice. 
Yet  it  is  chiefly  the  English  press  and  the  English  gov- 
ernment which  have  sown  this  unjust  judgment  through 
the  world.  Greece  was  called  in  the  newspapers  and  was 
treated  as  a  nation  of  brigands,  in  spite  of  the  most  evi- 
dent facts  to  the  contrary.  Over  one  hundred  peasants 
and  shepherds  were  arrested  for  having  furnished  aid  or 


FROM  MARCOPOULO   TO  AULIS.  161 

information  to  the  band ;  two  English  barristers  were 
sent  from  London  to  watch  the  proceedings  —  a  piece  of 
bullying  the  more  reprehensible  on  account  of  the  weak- 
ness and  embarrassment  of  poor  Greece.  Most  of  the 
arrested  persons  were  acquitted  on  account  of  a  total  want 
of  evidence  against  them ;  a  few  were  sentenced  to  vari- 
ous degrees  of  punishment.  Such  was  the  action  of  the 
Greek  government. 

It  must  be  granted,  on  the  other  hand,  that  there  had 
been  too  much  toleration  of  brigandage  among  a  portion 
of  the  Greek  peasants,  and  that  some  of  them  had  a 
tendency  to  turn  brigand  with  good  opportunity.  The 
effect  of  Turkish  oppression  which  drove  the  strong  man 
to  outlawry  and  the  weak  man  to  passive  submission  to 
wrong,  may  not  have  wholly  ceased  under  a  free  govern- 
ment. But  this  occurrence  has  wrought  a  change. 
When  the  peasant  saw  his  neighbor  taken  from  home 
and  brought  to  trial  for  having  aided  a  brigand,  his 
ideas  of  justice  and  duty  underwent  a  revolution.  He 
felt  that  a  terrible  unseen  power  was  on  the  track  of  the 
evil-doer,  and  as  has  been  already  stated,  he  came  to  be- 
lieve again  in  a  Nemesis  who  pursues  the  wicked  act. 
Some  such  feeling,  vague  and  dark,  yet  real,  the  traveler 
will  come  in  contact  with  among  the  people.  It  is 
healthy  —  let  the  Gods  be  again  believed  in,  though  they 
be  not  worshiped  as  of  old. 

But  wherever  a  wrong  has  been  done,  there  must  follow 
the  penalty;  if  England  has  been  guilty  of  injustice,  Ne- 
mesis will  be  upon  her,  for  the  Goddess  is  universal  in  her 
sway,  and  is  not  merely  for  the  Greeks.  So  it  turned  out : 
the  worst  compromised  man,  the  only  man  of  social  standing, 
and  the  sole  educated  man  among  those  arrested  for  abet- 
ting the  brigands,  was  an  Englishman,  son  of  the  propri- 
etor of  an  extensive  estate  in  Eubcea.  Shall  we  then  say 
that  English  gentlemen  are  supporters  of  brigands  ?  Not 
by  any  means  ;  but  let  them  not  make  this  charge  against 
the  Greeks  on  such  grounds  ;  if  it  be  unjust,  Nemesis  will 
bring  it  home  to  themselves.  For  the  Goddess  has  arisen 
once  more,  and  in  swift  anger  is  determined  to  requite 
the  guilty  act,  by  whomsoever  it  be  committed. 


162  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

Such  is  Deliura  with  its  two  jarring  notes,  an  ancient 
and  a  modern  one,  both  indicating  the  deep-seated  discor- 
dant throes  of  their  respective  epochs.  But  let  us  flee  from 
these  horrible  dissonances  .and  follow  the  donkeys  into 
some  harmonious  spot ;  they  are  now  passing  over  a  line 
of  low  hills  covered  with  brushwood.  Even  among  the 
brambles  there  is  the  interest  of  a  delightful  antiquity, 
for  all  of  these  bushes  and  plants  have  been  fragrantly 
preserved  in  classical  poetry.  Here  is  the  arbute  known 
to  readers  of  Theocritus  and  Virgil  with  its  bright  red 
berry  resembling  the  strawberry  in  look  but  not  in  taste  ; 
sometimes  it  is  called  the  strawberry  tree.  The  schinos 
or  wild  mastic  —  not  the  aromatic  mastic  of  Chios  so 
much  used  in  the  East  for  its  fragrance  —  is  here  with  its 
ancient  name  still,  just  as  it  was  uttered  by  the  Sicilian 
shepherd ;  its  leaves  are  employed  for  tanning,  according 
to  my  informant,  one  of  the  new-comers.  Pine  grows  in 
abundance,  often  chipped  for  its  resinous  ooze  to  put  into 
the  recinato  ;  a  species  of  scrub-oak  is  very  common  — 
yet  there  are  no  tall  trees  making  a  forest.  One  of  my 
companions  tells  me  the  names  and  uses  of  the  various 
shrubs  ;  to  my  special  delight  he  points  out  the  wild  olive, 
on  which  the  tame  one  is  grafted  to  produce  the  hardy 
tree.  Who  can  forget  that  it  was  one  of  the  trees  which 
furnished  cover  to  Ulysses,  asleep,  after  his  shipwreck 
near  the  Phseacian  isle,  and  from  whose  concealment  he 
came  forth  to  greet  fair  Nausicaa?  So  every  bush,  every 
flower  has,  besides  its  native  virtues,  the  delicious  frag- 
rance of  old  Greek  poetry  which  rises  up  like  incense 
from  these  green  hills. 

Since  I  am  trying  to  take  you  with  me,  I  must  not  al- 
low you,  even  at  the  risk  of  repetition,  to  lose  from  your 
view  the  mountains,  besnowed  above  and  green  below, 
that  always  accompany  us  just  across  in  Euboea.  There  is 
still  that  thin  flock  of  translucent  cloud,  bound  immovably 
to  the  brow  of  the  range,  while  above  its  tattered  strip  the 
white  summits  point  upwards,  on  which  the  snow  is 
sparkling  in  the  sunbeams  ;  silvery  garments  with  golden 
lining  apparel  the  heights  in  regal  magnificence — you  will 
say  before  you  can  get  the  sentiments  fully  under  control. 


FROM  MAECOPOULO    TO  AULIS.  163 

Soon  again  we  come  out  of  the  brushwood  to  the  Euripus 
growing  bluer  in  the  deeper  haze  of  the  afternoon,  yet 
with  the  same  tremulous  play  of  the  wavelets  rolling 
against  the  beach.  The  mountains  and  the  waters  have 
gone  along  with  us  all  day  —  hundreds  of  times  the  traveler 
looks  at  them  with  the  same  fresh  delight  and  wonders  if 
he  cannot  in  some  manner  carry  them  with  him  forever. 
Glance  at  them  once  more  and  turn  away. 

From  early  morning  I  have  walked,  helping  to  drive  the 
two  donkeys  —  no  small  labor  ;  Varvouillya  now  repeats 
his  invitation  to  ride.  This  time  I  accept,  for  I  must 
confess  to  growing  weary.  He  gives  "me  the  smaller  and 
more  tractable  01  the  two  donkeys ;  it  has  no  bridle  or 
halter  or  headgear  of  any  kind  whereby  it  can  be  directed, 
but  it  patiently  follows  the  other  and  elder  donkey,  upon 
which  Varvouillya  himself  is  mounted,  swinging  his  feet. 
Our  two  companions  have  fallen  behind  and  we  are  again 
alone.  With  an  easy  spring  one  lights  in  the  saddle,  that 
Greek  saddle,  very  comfortable  and  convenient,  though 
very  awkward.  There  I  sit  sidewise,  swinging  my  feet 
also,  often  thrusting  my  heels  back  into  the  flanks  of  the 
animal  and  grunting  out  commands  in  imitation  of  Var- 
vouillya ;  at  all  of  which  the  donkey  would  merely  lay  back 
his  ears  and  move  just  as  slow  as  before.  But  he  felt  the 
increased  burden,  and  began  to  meditate  how  to  get  rid 
of  it.  Wherever  there  was  a  bush  or  limb  along  the 
way,  he  was  certain  to  rub  as  close  to  it  as  possible. 
The  first  two  or  three  times  I  might  have  forgiven  as  ac- 
cidental, but  by  the  repeated  brushings  I  received  when 
there  was  no  necessity,  I  was  forced  to  the  conclusion 
that  the  rascal  was  trying  to  scrape  me  off.  He  had  a 
great  advantage  over  me,  as  he  was  without  bridle  or 
halter ;  the  only  thing  I  could  do  was  to  lean  down  from 
the  scaffolding  of  the  saddle  and  box  his  long  ears  in  the 
right  direction.  Then  with  what  supreme  innocence  he 
would  lay  them  back,  till  in  fact  I  would  feel  ashamed  of 
myself,  as  having  done  him  a  wrong.  But  at  last  he  did 
catch  me  ;  he  was  taking  me  straight  into  a  thorn-bush, 
there  was  no  escape,  I  whirled  and  sprang  off  on  the  other 
side,  with  considerable  agility,  I  thought.  Then  for  the 


164  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

first  time  during  the  day,  I  was  going  to  declare,  during 
my  whole  life,  I  saw  a  donkey  run.  It  was  a  clear  con- 
fession of  guilt  on  his  part. 

But  Varvouillya  was  soon  after  him  with  the  gad  of  des- 
tiny, and  his  meek  eyes  at  once  showed  complete  resigna- 
tion to  the  decree  of  fate,  and  to  the  burden  of  my  body. 
Now  if  you  can  bring  before  you  the  two  small  donkeys, 
patiently  stepping  along,  the  one  behind  the  other,  with 
the  two  riders  listlessly  sitting  side  wise,  and  swinging 
their  feet,  you  will  have  an  image  of  our  cavalcade  as 
late  one  afternoon  amid  a  golden  languor  of  classic  sun- 
beams it  entered  the  village  of  Vathy,  tying  on  the  harbor 
of  ancient  Aulis.  Varvouillya  halted  before  a  wineshop 
where  we  were  to  remain  for  the  night ;  the  people  of  the 
town,  mostly  Albanian,  flocked  around  us  in  a  white 
throng  of  f  ustanellas ;  Varvouillya  seemed  to  know 
every  body. 

Although  it  be  just  a  touch  of  self-praise,  to  which  you 
will  have  to  get  used  at  intervals,  I  am  compelled  to  say 
that  the  old  fellow  appeared  to  be  proud  of  his  compan- 
ion. He  was  at  first  astonished  to  see  me  persist  in  walk- 
ing—  gentlemen  in  Greece  usually  ride,  he  said;  but 
when  I  forded  the  Asopus,  I  had  taken  a  lofty  place  in 
his  esteem.  That  a  man  who  talked  high  Greek  and  read 
books  should  go  in  such  fashion  over  the  country,  was 
something  quite  unheard  of.  "Yet,"  said  he,  "that  is 
the  only  way  to  find  out  any  thing  about  us.  Those  gen- 
tlemen who  rush  rapidly  through  the  land  on  horseback, 
know  nothing  of  our  people."  I  was  glad  to  have  such  a 
sensible  approval  of  my  way  of  traveling. 

Then  Varvouillya  exhibited  me  in  that  place  to  the  as- 
tonished multitude,  with  extravagant  phrases  making  them 
believe  that  I  had  lately  arrived  from  the  moon.  We  went 
up  the  road  on  a  visit  through  the  village,  a  crowd  followed 
in  a  long  train,  little  children  peeped  around  the  corners 
of  the  houses  at  the  stranger  in  Frankish  garments,  wives 
with  babes  in  their  arms  glanced  through  the  half- 
opened  doors,  peasants  returning  from  the  fields  stopped 
their  beasts  of  burden  in  the  street,  and  eagerly  in- 
quired :  Who  is  it  ?  What  is  it  ?  The  people  were  bring- 


FItOM  MARCOPOULO    TO  AULIS.  165 

ing  me  to  the  wonder  of  their  village,  an  old  man,  form- 
erly a  sailor,  who  spoke  Italian  well  and  a  little  English, 
but  the  latter  tongue  he  had  about  forgotten.  I  found 
the  Nestor  of  the  hamlet  at  his  hearth  sitting  in  his  arm- 
chair—  a  man  who  had  seen  all  parts  of  the  world,  and 
whose  talk  was  full  of  experience  and  a  natural  wisdom. 
He  possessed  also  a  quiet  humor  which  would  suddenly  dash 
through  the  wrinkles  of  his  face,  lighting  up  its  aged  fur- 
rows with  a  glow  like  that  of  the  phosphorescent  sea  in 
the  wake  of  his  ship.  After  many  an  adventure  he  has 
returned  to  his  native  town  and  is  here  passing  a  sunny 
old  age  — sunny  with  good  reason,  for  at  his  side  is  now 
sitting  a  young  Greek  wife  with  a  babe  in  her  arms.  No, 
he  is  not  old  —  there  is  no  old  age  in  Iphigenia's  Aulis. 
But  I  must  be  off  ;  after  drinking  of  his  hospitable  wine 
and  at  request  exchanging  names,  I  find  my  way  back  to 
the  wineshop  without  Varvouillya,  who  has  gone  to  take 
care  of  his  donkeys.  There  also  generous  citizens  insist 
upon  my  taking  with  them  a  draught  of  recinato ;  I  re- 
turn the  friendly  bumper,  then  slip  out  the  back-door  and 
wander  off  alone  in  the  dusk  to  the  sea  side  which  is  not 
far  away.  There  I  sit  down  at  the  edge  of  the  water. 

Here,  then,  is  the  bay  of  Aulis  where  the  Greek  fleet 
assembled  for  the  expedition  to  Troy.  The  Euripus 
forms  at  this  point  quite  a  large  quadrangular  basin,  pro- 
tected by  hills  ;  in  the  center  of  the  basin  rises  an  island, 
rounded  off  to  the  full  firm  swell  of  a  virginal  breast,  on  the 
fop  of  which  one  places,  in  defiance  of  the  antiquarians, 
the  temple  of  the  chaste  huntress  Artemis  and  the  sacri- 
fice of  the  young  virgin  Iphigenia.  The  sparkling  water  at 
one  time  plays  over  a  sandy  beach,  at  another  time  it 
hides  itself  under  projecting  rocks  which  have  been  eaten 
away  underneath  by  the  ceaseless  nibbling  of  the  waves. 
One  can  still  see  in  the  dusk  the  ancient  heroes  bringing 
up  their  dark  ships  alongside  of  this  protending  rock, 
and  then  leaping  on  shore,  in  order  to  go  to  the  tent  of 
the  chieftain  for  important  deliberation.  Achilles,  the 
type  of  eternal  youth,  who  prefers  dying  young  with  en- 
during glory  to  passing  an  inglorious  life  in  his  own 
country,  has  left  his  aged  father  Peleus  in  his  Phthian 


166  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

home  on  the  banks  of  the  Spercheios  and  has  arrived,  not 
unwilling  to  meet  the  hour  when  he  must  die,  but  thus 
live  forever ;  Ulysses,  the  man  of  intelligence,  hence  the 
man  who-  has  to  endure,  gifted  with  infinite  subtlety  and 
just  for  that  reason  meshed  in  infinite  struggle,  has  left 
behind  a  young  wife  and  child  in  sunny  Ithaca,  and  has 
come  to  give  his  wisdom  to  the  expedition ;  Nestor,  the 
white-haired  eloquent  sage  of  the  Greeks,  from  whose 
tongue  words  dropped  sweeter  than  honey,  who  had 
lived  three  generations  of  men,  and  is  therefore  old 
enough  to  stay  at  home,  is  also  present,  with  his  two  sons, 
having  come  all  the  way  from  sandy  Pylos  to  join  the  great 
Hellenic  enterprise.  Youth  and  age,  bravery  and  wis- 
dom are  all  represented  —  and  now  flit  in  white  robes 
through  the  palpitating  twilight. 

And  what  is  this  trouble  about  ?  Helen  the  most  beauti- 
ful woman  of  Greece  has  been  carried  away  to  Troy ;  but 
the  East  shall  not  have  her  —  such  is  the  universal  shout 
of  Hellas,  of  its  old  and  its  young,  of  its  wisdom  and  its 
valor.  Now  the  chieftains  are  assembled,  preparing  to 
attempt  the  heroic  work  of  recovery  ;  they  have  quit  their 
country,  have  left  behind  in  many  cases  their  own  wives 
and  little  ones  —  a  chaste  Penelope  and  an  infant  Tele- 
machus  —  in  other  words  have  given  up  State  and  Family, 
for  the  sake  of  runaway  Helen,  of  dubious  fame  but  of 
surpassing  beauty.  Still  it  is  a  national  undertaking, 
altogether  the  most  national  undertaking  of  the  Greeks, 
for  they  were  more  united  in  the  expedition  to  Troy  thaii 
they  were  in  driving  back  the  Persian  ;  they  were  more 
ready  to  do  without  freedom  than  without  beauty. 

But  as  one  looks  at  these  shapes  tripping  through  the 
twilight,  there  seems  to  be  sometimes  a  little  hesitation,  a 
little  doubting  as  to  the  success  of  the  enterprise.  One  is 
emboldened  to  address  them  in  words  of  prophetic  con- 
fidence :  Courage,  oh  ye  long-haired  Achaeans,  I  predict 
that  ye  will  not  only  restore  Helen,  but  that  ye  will  take 
Troy  itself  and  raze  it  to  the  ground.  Helen  will  be 
brought  back  to  Greece,  there  to  remain  yours  forever,  but 
only  after  ten  weary  years  of  struggle.  And  thou, 
Ulysses,  dearest  of  all  my  friends  here,  thou  too  wilt  re- 


AULIS  AND   CHALKIti.  167 

turn,  though  thou  hast  before  thee  a  greater  task  than 
even  the  restoration  of  Helen.  Ten  years  first  must  thou 
battle  before  Troy  for  her  sake,  then  ten  years  more  hast 
thou  to  wander  through  things  visible  and  invisible  till 
thou  reach  sunny  Ithaca  and  chaste  Penelope. 

But  the  brusque  shade  turned  and  asked  me :  What, 
oh  child  of  the  setting  sun,  art  thou  doing  here,  among  us 
hoary  shapes  of  eld,  in  our  struggle  with  the  sons  of  the 
Dawn  ?  I  answered :  I  too  am  in  pursuit  of  Helen,  I  have 
come  to  Aulis,  I  also  wish  to  go  with  you  to  Troy. 

A  wild  goose  snattered  overhead,  the  ghosts  of  the  old 
chieftains  at  once  vanished,  slowly  I  returned  to  the  wine- 
shop, wondering  how  a  ridiculous  goose  could  put  to  flight 
all  the  heroes  of  Troy. 


VIII.  AULIS  AND  CHALKIS. 

When  I  had  come  back  from  the  bay,  it  was  dark  and 
the  wineshop  had  closed,  accordingly  I  went  into  the  ad- 
joining house  where  I  was  to  remain  for  the  night.  There 
was  a  bright  fire  blazing  in  the  hearth ;  around  it  the 
company  were  squatted  on  rugs ;  the  flashes  from  the 
flames  lit  up  all  the  faces  which  were  gazing  intently  on 
the  fire.  Outside  of  that  illuminated  circle  a  small  lamp 
struggled  with  the  darkness  ;  the  naked  rafters  could  be 
dimly  seen  overhead  hung  with  various  articles  of  the 
household.  We  had  one-half  of  the  house,  which  con- 
sisted of  a  single  oblong  room ;  the  other  half  was  taken 
up  with  the  stable  ;  the  difference  between  our  part  and 
the  donkey's  part  of  the  house  was  not  marked  by  any 
partition,  but  by  a  floor  slightly  raised  from  the  ground. 
Sometimes  in  Greek  dwellings  you  will  not  find  this  dis- 
tinction of  a  floor  retained  ;  man  has  not  yet  weaned  him- 
self from  the  bosom  of  his  primeval  mother.  In  the  stable 
were  a  donkey  and  a  lamb  ;  each  of  them  in  its  own  pe- 
culiar note  informed  us  at  intervals  during  the  entire 
night  of  its  presence. 


168  A   WALK  IN- HELLAS. 

Also  the  company  around  the  fire  is  worthy  of  notice. 
There  we  sit  looking  at  the  blaze  and  watching  the  supper 
which  is  cooking  before  us ;  hunger  is  throned  in  every 
eye,  and  observes  the  various  stages  of  the  culinary  pro- 
cess with  no  little  impatience.  I  am  squatted  in  front  of 
the  hearth,  deeply  absorbed  in  the  turkey  now  being 
whirled  on  the  spit  and  oozing  all  over  with  fragrant 
juices  ;  Varvouillya  is  next  on  my  right,  he  is  telling  some 
of  his  stories  of  travel  for  our  amusement ;  next  to  him 
comes  Yanni,  our  simple  Albanian  host,  with  his  hands 
locked  around  his  knees  and  rather  stupidly  rocking  him- 
self backwards  and  forwards  on  his  haunches.  Yanni' s 
mind  is  evidently  divided  between  the  stranger,  the  like 
of  whom  he  has  never  seen  in  his  house  before,  and  the 
turkey,  with  the  preponderance  of  interest  in  favor  of  the 
latter. 

But  on  my  left  sit  two  new  characters,  women,  two 
other  guests  besides  Varvouillya  and  myself.  They  are 
Wallachian  shepherdesses  who  have  come  down  from  the 
mountains  with  their  products,  and  are  going  to  the  bazaar 
at  Chalkis  early  to-morrow  morning.  There  is  a  wild  look 
about  them,  they  are  genuine  nomads,  children  of  Nature, 
living  in  the  open  air  among  the  hills,  like  birds  amid 
branches.  Their  dress  is  rude,  of  very  simple  construc- 
tion ;  from  below  a  short  kirtle  their  naked  feet  peep  out, 
resting  on  the  hearthstones,  and  evidently  not  accustomed 
to  tender  usage  ;  they  had  shoes,  but  these  had  been  taken 
off  at  the  door  according  to  custom.  The  youngest  of 
the  two  was  a  girl  of  about  eighteen,  who  sat  next  to  me  ; 
she  could  not  well  be  called  beautiful,  but  I  admired  her 
unstinted  physical  growth,  the  fullness  and  natural  luxu- 
riance of  her  body.  Dark  tresses  fell  down  her  cheeks  in 
the  wild  negligence  of  nature ;  from  beneath  them,  as 
out  of  some  dim  grot  gleamed  two  bright  warm  eyes.  I 
began  to  talk  with  her  as  she  spoke  Greek ;  I  told  her 
that  I  wanted  to  see  and  to  live  with  the  shepherds  in 
their  tents  of  brushwood,  then  I  asked  her  if  she  would 
not  take  me  with  her  to  the  Wallachian  village  in  the 
mountains.  With  a  shower  of  unusually  vivid  sparkles 
from  her  eyes  she  replied  that  she  would.  But  the  next 


AULIS  AND   CHALKIS.  169 

day  she  said  that  she  had  to  go  to  Chalkis,  and  could  not 
well  look  after  me  there ;  still  she  would  return  in  the 
afternoon  and  would  then  gladly  conduct  me  to  her  home. 
I  am  compelled  to  say  that  I  backed  out,  though  I  wanted 
very  much  to  go  to  her  village,  and  I  debated  a  good  while 
with  myself  about  the  matter.  But  I  concluded  that  I 
had  better  stay  with  Varvouillya  who  was  going  forward 
to  Thebes  the  following  day.  I  now  regret  that  I  did  not 
accept  her  invitation,  for  I  had  never  afterwards  another 
opportunity  of  the  kind,  though  I  sought  one  repeatedly; 
also  I  might  have  remained  in  that  Wallachian  village 
and  become  a  shepherd. 

Her  associate,  a  woman  in  middle  life,  is  of  a  very 
different  type ;  she  has  a  strangely  line  face  with  subtly 
woven  lines,  though  it  be  somewhat  wrinkled  and  hag- 
gard. Slight  curls  hang  down  over  her  features  which 
seem  to  be -marked  more  by  mental  than  by  physical  en- 
durance. I  can  not  help  thinking  that  she  has  suffered, 
the  spirit  within  appears  to  be  in  dumb  protest  with  this 
pastoral  life  of  hers.  She  must  be  some  waif  of  civiliza- 
tion, a  lost  child  of  Europe  whom  destiny  has  cast  among 
these  shepherds.  But  how  has  she  come  hither  ?  There 
is  ancestral  dignity  still  remaining  in  those  fine  lines ; 
some  fall  speaks  unconsciously  from  her  sorrowful  look. 
A  whole  romance  I  seem  to  read,  plainly  writ  in  her  face, 
but  when  I  questioned  her  about  her  origin,  she  says  that 
she  is  merely  a  shepherdess. 

Next  to  her  in  the  circle  is  Yanni's  wife  who  is  occu- 
pied in  turning  an  iron  spit  over  the  coals.  She  is  dressed 
in  the  white  Albanian  costume,  and  seems  very  shy  and 
taciturn ;  she  never  shares  in  the  laugh,  and  often  tries 
to  hide  her  o-hin  and  forehead  more  deeply  in  her  head- 
kerchief.  Every  few  moments  she  fetches  a  deep  sigh, 
this  is  repeated  so  often  that  I  inquire  the  cause.  I  was 
told  that  there  had  recently  occurred  a  death  in  the 
family  —  this  was  the  form  of  mourning.  In  all  parts  of 
Greece  the  same  custom  can  be  noticed ;  the  women,  not 
the  men,  utter  the  lamentations,  which  are  kept  up  beside 
the  hearth  long  afterwards,  as  if  to  invoke  the  missing 
member  to  take  his  place  at  the  domestic  gathering.  It 


170  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

is  essentially  the  ancient  custom ;  at  the  house  of  the  de- 
ceased and  in  the  funeral  procession  were  heard  the 
wailings  of  females,  who  represent  more  intimately  and 
intensely  than  the  man,  the  domestic  ties.  Thus,  as  in 
life  itself,  the  saddest  note  of  Nature  would  spontaneously 
well  up  and  mingle  with  our  animated  words,  tingeing  and 
often  extinguishing  them ;  good  Varvouillya  tries  to  give 
consolation  to  the  poor  mother  sitting  at  the  hearth, 
while  we  look  on  in  sympathetic  silence,  but  the  consola- 
tion only  sharpens  the  pang  and  the  tears  begin  to  fall. 
That  spit  which  is  now  taken  in  hand  by  Yanni,  must 
also  have  its  jot  of  attention.  It  is  an  iron  rod  which 
pierces  a  turkey;  this  is  turned  continually  before  the 
fire  till  the  fowl  is  thoroughly  roasted.  All  other  meats 
are  cooked  pretty  much  in  the  same  way ;  they  are  cut  up 
into  small  pieces  which  are  pierced  by  the  spit  and  held 
over  the  fire.  Thus  the  Homeric  cookery,  as  seen  every- 
where in  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey,  is  still  prevalent  in 
Greece : 

"  his  companions  stood 

Around  him  and  prepared  the  feast,  and  some 
Roasted  the  flesh  at  fires,  and  some  transfixed 
The  parts  with  spits." 

So  the  merry  Greeks  feasted  anciently  at  Aulis ;  so  the 
traveler  is  going  to  feast  to-night,  for  the  turkey  is  done. 
The  simmering  bird  is  removed  from  the  spit  by  the 
skillful  hands  of  Yanni  and  placed  upon  the  table  which 
is  lying  flat  on  the  floor  like  the  innkeeper's  at  Mar- 
copoulo.  Around  it  the  three  men  squat  down  cross- 
legged,  with  eager  glances ;  the  three  women  keep  at  a 
distance  and  pick  their  bone  in  their  own  corner.  Women 
here  have  not  yet  risen  to  the  exalted  privilege  of  eating 
their  dinner  with  their  majestic  lords.  There  was  beside 
the  fowl,  good  black  bread,  a  little  dry,  but  floated,  as 
usual,  by  the  pearl-dropping  recinato.  The  host  is,  as 
already  said,  a  simple  Albanian,  without  education  and 
without  natural  gifts,  yet  he  has  some  natural  capacity 
for  turkey  and  wine.  He  is  kind  and  open-hearted,  but 
he  seems  to  have  passed  his  whole  life  in  this  little  village, 
without  any  knowledge  of  the  world  outside  of  it.  A 


AULIS  AND   CHALKIS.  171 

vague  curiosity  he  shows  about  lands  and  seas  and  peo- 
ples of  which  the  traveler  talks,  but  his  intellect  is  hardly 
capable  of  more  t£an  a  stupid  wonder.  He  is  quite  a 
contrast  to  that  quick-witted  and  well-educated  Greek, 
the  jolly  landloi'd  of  Marcopoulo,  whom  we  must  not  al- 
ways expect  to  meet  at  our  inn.  He  speaks  a  broken 
Romaic,  I  speak  a  broken  Greek,  between  us  the  pure 
transparent  tongue  of  Hellas  is  badly  shivered,  as  if  a 
costly  mirror  were  shattered  to  fragments.  Still  in  each 
fragment  you  can  see  yourself ;  so  we  manage  to  under- 
stand one  another  very  well. 

Doubtless  Yanni  may  be  taken  as  a  pretty  fair  sample 
of  the  common  Albanian  population  of  Greece.  It  is  still 
a  problem  what  these  people  are  going  to  make  of  them- 
selves ;  will  they  finally  coalesce  with  the  other  elements 
and  aid  in  forming  one  homogeneous  Hellenic  nation,  or 
will  they  continue  to  remain  a  distinct  race  upon  Greek 
soil  ?  At  present  the  Albanians  preserve  most  stubbornly 
the  ancestral  language  and  customs.  The  wife  before  me 
cannot  speak  even  common  Greek  or  Romaic,  though  she 
understands  it  pretty  well ;  to  preserve  their  language 
the  men  often  do  not  permit  the  women  to  learn  other 
than  the  maternal  tongue.  Their  agriculture,  their  meth- 
ods of  labor,  their  implements  are  of  the  most  primitive 
kind ;  they  allow  no  improvements  on  the  traditional 
manner  of  doing  things.  This  Albanian  element  seems 
a  most  stubborn,  stolid,  impervious  element  in  the  way  of 
the  progress  of  Greece ;  its  conservatism  would  be  ex- 
cellent, were  it  not  in  danger  of  becoming  absolutely 
crystallized ;  it  can  not  be  kneaded  or  moulded  to  any 
new  shape.  Still  the  Albanians  are  a  strong,  coura- 
geous, uucorrupted  race  ;  without  their  bravery  and  perse- 
verance there  would  have  been  no  Greek  independence. 

Perhaps  in  the  course  of  time  they  may  add  their  some- 
what heavy  ballast  to  the  somewhat  light-headed  and 
unsteady  Greek  character,  for  in  this  respect  the  two 
peoples  are  quite  opposite.  Thus  there  may  arise  an- 
other great  Hellenic  nation,  combining  the  versatility  of 
the  one  with  the  conservatism  of  the  other  element.  At 
present,  however,  the  streams  will  not  mingle.  This  lack 


172  A   WALK  I.V  HELLAS. 

of  homogeneity  in  the  population  of  modern  Greece  is 
the  most  striking  fact  of  its  social  condition,  and  excites 
the  observer  to  various  reflections.  It  certainly  indicates 
weakness,  national  weakness,  for  the  spirit  of  nationality 
is  not  strong  enough  to  overcome  these  natural  distinc- 
tions of  race,  and  to  fuse  them  into  unity.  Every  strong 
nation  must  digest  the  foreign  elements  within  itself  and 
absorb  them  into  its  own  character,  language  and  institu- 
tions by  the  intensity  of  its  national  life.  But  these 
three  races  —  Greek,  Albanian,  Wallachian  —  have  ex- 
isted here  for  centuries  alongside  of  one  another  without 
being  smelted  by  the  fire  of  patriotism  into  the  oneness 
of  spirit  which  may  be  called  nationality.  Greece  is  still 
an  agglomerate,  not  an  organic  Whole ;  the  want  of  the 
central  fire  which  burns  up  all  narrow  limitations  is  still  felt ; 
the  ancient  tendency  to  separation,  which  is  so  strong- 
ly marked  in  the  physical  features  of  the  country,  is  now 
manifested  in  the  resistance  to  a  fusion  of  races,  though 
in  antiquity  the  resistance  was  to  a  political  unity  of  peo- 
ples of  the  same  race.  Such  a  condition  comes  of  weak- 
ness and  can  only  perpetuate  weakness. 

Already  I  had  been  ruminating  on  the  problem  of  ac- 
commodating this  respectable  body  of  people  in  one  room 
for  the  night.  Yanni  began  solving  the  difficulty  by 
spreading  out  a  blanket  on  the  floor  for  me  and  then  giving 
me  another  blanket  for  cover.  Thus  I  was  disposed  of ;  the 
shepherdesses  lay  down  on  a  rug  in  front  of  the  fire, 
pretty  much  as  they  were ;  it  was  probably  the  best  lodg- 
ing they  had  had  in  a  long  time.  Tresses  became  more  di- 
shevelled as  their  heads  drooped  in  slumber ;  then  too  they 
must  have  forgotten  that  they  were  under  roof,  for  they 
snored  away  as  if  they  were  on  their  native  mountains 
with  only  the  skies  overhead.  The  family  also  retire 
alongside  of  the  hearth ;  thus  we  all  lie  there,  scattered 
around  the  blaze  of  the  oak  branches,  head  to  feet  and 
feet  to  head,  in  the  sweet  innocence  of  Paradise. 

But  notice  Yanni,  thou  unsatisfied  wanderer  up  and 
down  the  earth !  At  the  other  end  of  the  house  where  the 
stable  is,  hangs  a  small  lamp  suspended  from  the  ceiling ; 
with  a  faint  light  it  burns  before  a  rude  picture  of  the 


AULIS  AND   CHALKIS.  173 

Virgin ;  on  retiring  Yanni  turns  to  that  light,  crosses 
himself  many  times,  makes  profound  bows  to  the  image 
and  repeats  his  prayers.  Not  before  that  act  is  done,  is 
he  willing  to  consign  himself  to  the  strange  unconscious 
world  which  lies  between  to-day  and  to-morrow.  This 
question  of  Deity  then  has  entered  the  heart  of  the  un- 
lettered man ;  there  is  a  power  above  him  which  he 
recognizes,  and  with  which  he  must  put  himself  into  har- 
mony, before  he  can  find  repose  for  the  night.  The 
traveler  observes  the  fact  not  without  reflection,  not 
without  emotion.  Mark  it  well:  his  own  sweet  will  is 
not  for  Yanni  the  supreme  thing ;  he  must  at  least  placate 
that  image  yonder,  and  the  power  which  looks  through  it 
into  his  soul.  Recognition  of  some  higher  being  who 
governs  the  universe  gleams  through  the  darkness  into 
this  hut ;  it  is  a  gleam,  only  a  gleam  like  that  nickering 
lamp  illuminating  dimly  the  face  of  the  Virgin.  But  by 
it  you  can  behold  some  image  of  the  Divine,  rude  though 
it  be  ;  whenever  you  wake  in  the  night,  you  will  see  the 
lamp  still  burning  faintly  high  up  amid  the  rafters,  hope- 
fully trying  to  show  to  you  also  some  countenance  of  love 
and  protection. 

Previously  at  supper,  I  had  noticed  'a  peculiar  relig- 
ious trait  of  Yanni's,  or  perhaps  only  a  freak;  whenever 
he  emptied  a  glass  of  recinato,  he  invariably  used  this 
expression  in  doubtful  Greek :  apo  ton  theon  —  to  God ;  he 
drank  his  toast  to  God.  If  I  proposed  the  health  of  his 
family,  of  his  wife,  of  his  country,  of  himself,  he  would 
never  fail  to  drink,  but  his  only  response  was :  apo  ton 
theon — to  God.  Did  he  imagine  that  divinity  too  was 
pleased  with  the  golden  recinato,  like  ancient  Bacchus  ? 
Certainly  he  did  not  think  that  the  joyous  beverage  could 
be  of  Satan,  wherein  I  religiously  believe  with  him.  But 
the  traveler  as  he  looks  up  will  behold  a  true  illumina- 
tion in  that  small  burning  lamp,  and  will  feel  a  protect- 
ing hand  reach  out  from  the  dim  picture ;  for  by  the 
light  there  the  Virgin  can  see,  according  to  Yanni's 
faith,  and  avert  any  act  of  villany,  and  even  punish  the 
evil-doer.  Such  will  be  the  general  feeling  of  the  lone 
stranger,  as  he  drops  off  into  slumber,  in  spite  of  the  ugly 


174  A    WALK  IY  HELLAS. 

drawback  that  the  brigands  went  to  church  at  Oropus 
and  devoutly  prayed  to  the  Virgin. 

Unimportant  details  I  promised  to  tell  you  ;  therefore  I 
may  say  that  my  dreams  were  pleasant,  though  my  couch 
was  hard,  harder  than  any  I  recollect  of  having  since  the 
days  of  my  campaigning.  But  when  I  became  sore  on 
one  side,  nothing  prevented  me  from  turning  over  and 
lying  on  my  other  side,  except  the  danger  of  stirring  up 
the  people  at  my  feet.  Various  sounds  floated  through 
my  slumbers  that  night,  some  of  which  I  brought  back 
with  me  from  Lethe :  the  donkey  in  the  stable  kept  cham- 
ping his  straw,  the  lamb  bleated,  the  dogs  barked,  the 
baby  cried;  Vavouillya,  asleep  within  reaching  distance  of 
me,  grunted  at  his  beast  of  destiny,  and  then  punched  me 
in  the  ribs.  All  this  I  could  endure  and  slumber  on  in 
happy  Greek  mood ;  but  when  the  young  shepherdess, 
in  some  dream  of  pastoral  felicity  turned  over  and  rolled 
her  stalwart  body  upon  my  feet,  sleep  fled  from  my  eye- 
lids. Meantime  the  elder  shepherdess  rose  and  woke 
her  companion ;  they  talked  and  chaffered  with  Yanni 
about  the  bill  for  their  lodging ;  then  tying  their  heavy 
bundles  on  their  back,  they  set  out  for  Chalkis  afoot,  be- 
fore the  rosy-fingered  Aurora  had  strewn  a  single  coral  in 
the  Orient.  What  man  in  these  degenerate  days  could  lift 
the  burden  with  which  I  saw  my  young  shepherdess  gaily 
trip  along  when  she  opened  the  door  to  the  fitful  glimmer 
of  the  moon !  Good-by,  mountainous  nymph,  an  aching 
ankle  keeps  thy  mighty  image  vividly  before  me,  yet 
darting  amid* delightful  visions  of  what  a  life  would  be  in 
thy  pastoral  home. 

In  the  morning  there  is  a  large  company  passing  from 
the  village  to  Chalkis  in  a  boat ;  I  go  with  them.  The 
little  vessel  went  across  the  ancient  bay  of  Aulis,  right 
through  the  anchoring  places  of  the  Greek  fleet,  which 
must  have  rocked  buoyantly  on  these  wavelets.  Open- 
ing into  the  large  bay  is  the  small  bay  of  Aulis  ;  both  of 
them  were  required,  doubtless,  for  the  old  fleet ;  one 
imagines  those  thousand  ships  still  lying  on  the  sea  With 
their  drooping  white  sails  in  the  sun.  But  it  is  the  island 
in  the  middle  of  the  bay  which  fixes  most  strongly  the 


AULIS  AND   CHALKIS.  175 

attention ;  round  and  full  it  rises  out  of  the  water  slightly 
flattened  on  the  top,  and  seems  to  dance  in  the  ripples 
like  a  ball.  As  it  is  the  center  of  the  harbor,  so  around 
it  play  all  memories  of  the  ancient  story  —  of  the  ships, 
of  the  heroes,  of  the  virgin's  sacrifice.  Along  the  shore 
are  beautiful  hilltops  rising  up  into  sunshine ;  on  them 
we  place  some  shrine  or  temple,  white  with  columns  and 
frieze,  gleaming  afar  over  the  waters.  Upon  one  of  these 
summits  is  situated  the  ancient  citadel  of  Aulis,  whose 
remains  can  still  be  seen ;  huge  walls  with  gates  are  there, 
speaking  of  the  olden  time. 

The  little  boat  is  full  of  people ;  there  are  several  other 
boats  going  in  the  same  direction ;  each  has  its  oarsman 
with  its  crew  on  the  benches ;  thus  a  new  Agamemnonian 
fleet  cuts  through  the  waters  of  Aulis.  Many  flashes  of 
old  Greek  customs  the  traveler  will  imagine  that  he  sees 
in  the  company.  There  is  the  Greek  merriment  aboard, 
which  at  times  seems  to  verge  toward  childishness,  as 
shown  in  little  tricks  and  jests ;  two  men  of  middle  age 
roll  over  the  benches  and  tickle  each  other  to  the  amuse- 
ment of  the  whole  fleet.  Many  hints  of  old  Greek  dress 
will  be  noticed  in  these  garments ;  they  are  mostly  white 
fustanellas,  not  spotless  now,  but  suggesting  that  they 
may  have  been  anciently  so.  There  is  a  leathern  pouch 
around  the  waist  containing  a  long  knife  and  other  need- 
ful untensils ;  from  it  the  wearer  draws  forth  flint  and 
punk  to  strike  a  light  for  any  purpose  which  he  may 
have  in  mind,  since  it  would  be  a  gross  anachronism  to 
illumine  the  bay  of  Aulis  with  a  modern  match.  A  whole 
Greek  household  lies  in  that  pouch;  out  of  its  unseen 
depths  the  man  at  my  side  takes  a  heavy  needle  and 
thread,  and  se,ws  up  a  rip  in  my  shoe,  for  his  own  mere 
delectation.  Then  there  is  the  language ;  still  the  Greek 
is  spoken  here,  and  it  is  probable  that  the  ancient  and  the 
modern  sailor,  could  they  now  address  each  other  in  these 
waters,  would  be  mutually  intelligible.  Still  the  most 
marvelous  fact  of  human  speech:  the  Homeric  heroes 
spake  as  is  spoken  to-day  in  the  port  of  Aulis. 

During  this  little  voyage  my  chief  associate  I  find  in  the 
schoolmaster  of  Vathy  (or  Aulis),  who  is  crossing  over  to 


176  A  WALK  JX  HELLAS. 

Chalkis  for  some  school  books,  as  he  says.  He  was  a 
captain  in  the  Cretan  insurrection,  was  compelled  to  flee 
from  his  native  island  and  leave  his  family  to  the  tender 
mercies  of  the  Turk ;  now  he  has  to  be  a  schoolmaster  in 
a  foreign  land.  It  is  not  long  before  he  begins  to  com- 
plain ;  manifestly  he  has  lost  his  Greek  mood  teaching 
school  at  Aulis.  Indeed  fortune  has  buffeted  him  till»he 
has  become  like  a  wind-beaten  oak,  all  gnarled  and 
cross-grained ;  but  to-day  the  rest  of  the  merry  company 
prevent  him  from  letting  out  fully  his  splenetic  humor. 
He  invites  me  to  visit  his  school,  which  1  promise  to  do 
when  we  return  from  Chalkis  where  we  have  now  ar- 
rived. 

The  town  of  Chalkis  presented  on  that  morning,  which 
was  market-day,  a  very  mixed  appearance.  The  Orient 
seems  to  be  more  strongly  impressed  upon  this  place  than 
upon  any  other  in  Greece  ;  yet  it  has  also  many  a  fierce 
reminder  of  the  Occident ;  clearly  it  has  been  a  point  of 
conflict  and  of  fluctuating  possession  in  the  old  centuries. 
Its  importance  — for  it  commands  the  Euripus  at  the  nar- 
rowest crossing  —  has  always  made  it  an  object  with  con- 
querors. The  traces  of  its  various  rulers  and  its 
checkered  destiny  are  stamped  everywhere  upon  its  face, 
and  at  once  possess  the  attention  and  the  feelings  of  the 
beholder.  Here  is  a  Gothic  church  with  its  pointed  win- 
dows, dating  from  the  Venetian  occupation  during  the 
Middle  Ages.  It  seems  like  a  lost  ghost,  you  salute  it 
and  ask  it:  How  hast  thou  wandered  hither  from  thy 
home  in  the  dark  foggy  North  ?  The  lion  of  St.  Mark  is 
still  seen  over  the  gate  6f  the  castle ;  he  yet  has  the  hoary 
look  of  a  crusader.  Signs  of  Turkish  occupation  are 
noticed  in  the  old  mosques  and  towers,  in  the  falling  for- 
tifications, in  the  careless  construction  of  the  walls. 
Wretched  patchwork  over  great  remains  shows  the  Turk 
in  Greece.  A  few  Mohammedans  are  said  to  linger  still 
in  Chalkis,  the  only  place  of  the  Prophet's  worship  in  the 
kingdom  is  left  here.  A  few  marbles  built  into  the  walls 
of  the  churches  give  a  slight  sprinkle  of  antiquity  ;  but  of 
the  distinctive  new  Hellas  the  traveler  seeks  the  signs  in 
vain.  But  it  will  come,  be  not  impatient. 


AULIS  AND   CIIALKIS.  177 

The  bazaar  or  market  is  on  Mondays ;  good  fortune 
has  lauded  me  just  at  the  right  moment.  The  streets  and 
particularly  the  public  square  are  lined  with  small  booths, 
every  thing  which  the  Orient  offei-s  is  for  sale,  mingled  in 
admirable  disorder  with  Western  merchandise.  Peddlers 
are  here  from  all  parts  of  Greece,  hawking  their  wares ; 
I  see  my  man  who  fell  into  turbid  Asopus,  trying  to  sell  a 
kind  of  carding  comb ;  still  the  marks  of  the  muddy  wa- 
ters fleck  the  white  folds  of  his  fustanella,  as  he  dashes, 
all  oblivious,  through  the  surging  crowd.  Some  American 
cottons  and  American  cutlery  can  be  noticed,  but  the 
English  manufacturer  possesses  the  market ;  for  his  success 
he  has  my  best  wishes  at  least,  since  he  does  not  clamor 
for  protection  at  home,  while  carrying  his  wares  around 
the  world.  The  most  obstinate  chafferers  are  the  women 
who  are  selling,  for  no  women  appear  as  buyers ;  I  am 
told  that  Greek  women  of  respectability  never  go  to  mar- 
ket. What  a  bustling,  bargaining,  yet  merry-making 
crowd!  Dried  figs  I  bought,  good,  yet  enormously 
cheap  ;  for  five  cents  a  peasant  woman  loaded  me  down, 
so  that  I  had  to  leave  part  of  my  measure  behind  for  want 
of  transportation.  I  should  have  bought  only  a  cent's 
worth  according  to  the  rules  of  careful  economy.  My 
Wallachian  shepherdess,  too,  I  saw  there  sitting  among 
her  curds  and  lambs,  with  wild  luxuriant  form  now  more 
fully  revealed  in  the  clear  daylight ;  she  greets  me  with 
another  shower  of  sparkles  and  invites  me  anew  to  her 
mountain  home.  As  I  walked  through  one  of  the  back 
streets,  some  Greek  boys  observing  my  foreign  dress  be- 
gan to  run  after  and  mock  the  stranger;  they  were  joined 
by  others  wherever  we  passed.  I  darted  rapidly  through 
an  alley,  but,the  crowd  increased  till  a  small  mob  was  in 
pursuit.  I  hurried  back  to  the  bazaar  and  lost  myself 
from  my  tormentors  in  the  throng.  The  boys  did  not 
mean  any  thing  except  a  little  sport ;  but  it  was  one  of 
two  acts  of  rudeness  which  I  remember  to  have  experi- 
enced in  my  journey  through  rural  Greece.  Postal 
matters  seemed  rather  lax  at  Chalkis ;  two  visits  to  the 
Post  Office  were  not  able  to  procure  me  an  interview  with 
the  Postmaster  or  the  sight  of  a  postage  stamp. 

1-2 


178  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

The  Greek  shops  open  with  their  whole  fronts  into  the 
street,  they  always  seem  to  bo  half  outside  in  the  free  air. 
The  shoemaker  sits  before  his  door  and  pegs  away,  the 
blacksmith's  shop  is  next  to  the  shoemaker's,  his  bellows 
can  be  blown  by  a  person  standing  on  the  pavement.  The 
artisans  generally  are  working  in  the  open  air,  or  just 
across  the  threshold  of  the  entrance.  Public  eating 
places  are  frequent ;  the  kitchen  is  where  the  front  window 
is  in  our  houses ;  as  you  pass  along  the  street,  you  can 
see  the  pot  boiling  and  smell  the  oleaginous  fragrance  of 
its  contents.  If  you  wish,  the  keeper  will  hand  you  a 
spoon  and  a  plate  of  lentils  or  beans  with  stewed  mutton, 
and  you  can  eat  your  dinner  under  the  free  blue  sky  of 
Hellas. 

Thus  the  shops  range  close  together  down  the  street, 
like  a  series  of  pigeon  holes,  before  which  the  active  chat- 
tering folk  is  swarming.  It  is  the  gift  of  the  climate :  man 
cannot  endure  to  be  housed  up,  though  it  be  mid  winter. 
The  air  invites,  confinement  within  walls  is  painful,  the 
glorious  world  is  outside  and  the  golden  gifts  of  Helius. 
Yet  just  as  the  shops  are  open,  free,  un confined,  so  the 
dwelling  houses  are  close,  walled-in,  forbidding.  There 
the  women  are,  the  family ;  the  world  must  not  be  allowed 
to  enter  that  sanctuary,  nor  must  it  come  "out  into  the 
world.  I  walked  toward  the  suburbs  through  the  more 
private  streets,  in  the  hope  of  catching  a  glimpse  of  some 
beautiful  Greek  shape.  But  there  was  not  one  to  be  seen, 
not  a  woman  of  the  better  class  appeared  anywhere. 
Away  then;  — no  chance  is  there  of  finding  Helen  here 
in  this  Oriental  seclusion ;  though  Aulis  lie  just  yonder 
across  the  strait,  resting  in  tranquil  sunshine,  yet  eter- 
nally inviting  to  a  new  expedition  to  Troy,  there  is  now 
not  a  sign  of  a  Homeric  hero  who  has  come  hither  in  pur- 
suit of  his  beautiful  queen,  not  a  sign  of  even  a  wretched 
Thersites.  The  day  of  the  Trojan  enterprise  is  indeed 
past  forever ;  Helen  must  be  recovered  in  some  other 
way. 

In  my  disappointment  I  went  down  to  the  bridge  over 
the  Euripus  and  looked  at  the  flow  of  its  waters.  The 
first  bridge  is  said  to  have  been  built  by  the  Thebans  dur- 


AULIS  AXD  CHALKIS.  179 

ing  the  Peloponnesian  war ;  the  building  of  it  was  one  of 
the  severest  blows  that  Athens  received,  and  according  to 
Thucydides  caused  more  terror  than  the  defeat  of  the 
Sicilian  expedition  —  doubtless  one  of  the  two  exaggera- 
tions to  be  found  in  that  coldest-blooded  of  historians. 
But  look  under  the  bridge  at  this  strong  current ;  it  seems 
like  a  narrow  stream  dashing  down  a  rocky  bottom. 
Look  at  it  longer ;  it  is  not  as  swift  as  it  was,  indeed  it 
changes  under  your  eye  from  a  rapid  torrent  to  a  mild 
unruffled  movement  of  slow  waters.  If  you  look  at  it  the 
third  time  long  enough,  you  will  find  that  the  current  has 
wholly  ceased,  there  is  a  complete  calm  under  the  bridge ; 
nay,  it  begins  slowly  to  move  the  other  way,  and  soon  in- 
creases to  the  swift  dashing  stream  which  you  saw  first, 
but  in  the  opposite  direction.  This  change  takes  place 
within  a  few  minutes,  and  sometimes  there  are  several 
such  changes  in  twenty-four  hours.  On  the  whole  this  is 
the  most  capricious  thing  known  of  the  sea.  The  cause 
is  commonly  said  to  be  some  mixed  action  of  tides  and 
winds  along  with  the  configuration  of  the  land  above  and 
below.  But  I  hold  it  to  be  an  inherent  principle  of  Greek 
water  that  it  be  able  to  run  in  one  direction,  then  to  turn 
around  and  run  back  again  ;  true  to  the  Greek  character 
it  sometimes  has  the  capacity  of  being  the  opposite  of 
itself.  Enemies  call  this  trait  by  the  ugly  name  of  lying 
or  treachery ;  but  let  us  call  it  versatility,  the  ability  to 
turn  about. 

From  this  narrowest  point  of  the  Euripus  we  see  plainly 
what  the  island  Euboea  is :  simply  a  fragment  torn  off 
from  the  mainland  and  thrown  into  the  sea.  The  mighty 
giant  who  performed  the  feat  was  a  veritable  existence  to 
the  ancient  eye  looking  at  yonder  ragged  mountain  and 
beholding  this  rift  filled  with  water ;  nor  will  the  modern 
observer  fail  to  have  some  faith  in  that  deed  of  wonder. 
The  old  myths  are  often  the  truest  expression  of  the  Greek 
landscape  to  this  day ;  far  truer  to  me  than  the  imageless 
impersonal  geological  description.  That  angry  Titan  who 
tore  up  a  mountain  and  hurled  it  at  Jupiter,  with  the  for- 
ests still  on  it  and  with  the  streams  still  running  down  its 
sides,  can  yet  be  seen  with  a  good  vision.  Euboea  is  an 


180  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

island,  but  it  becomes  mainland  by  a  bridge.  Such  is  the 
physical  aspect  of  Greece ;  land  and  water  lie  in  brotherly 
embrace,  ready  to  furnish  mutual  assistance ;  but  they 
can  be  made  to  hold  aloof  from  each  other  with  sullen  de- 
fiance. The  continent,  too,  is  filled  with  islands,  quite  like 
the  sea,  for  what  else  are  these  plains  and  valleys  held 
asunder  by  the  mountains,  requiring  that  climbing  ship, 
the  donkey  to  pass  them  ? 

In  the  afternoon  the  same  vessel  with  the  same  company 
returns  to  Vathy.  As  I  sat  on  the  shore  previous  to  de- 
parting, I  was  surprised  to  hear  myself  addressed  in  good 
fluent  English  by  a  man  in  the  baggy  blue  breeches  of  the 
islanders.  I  greeted  gladly  my  native  speech  in  that 
strange  spot,  where  I  least  thought  of  hearing  it ;  the 
unexpected  meeting  of  lovers  after  long  separation,  could 
not  have  been  more  tender ;  under  such  circumstances  one 
is  astonished  to  find  what  deep  affection  he  has  for  his 
mother  tongue.  The  man  had  been  many  years  a  sailor 
in  the  English  merchant  marine  where  he  had  learned  the 
language.  But  shove  off,  let  us  leave  living  Chalkis  and 
once  more  rock  over  the  ripples  of  the  Euripus  to  the 
more  real  forms  of  those  ancient  ghosts  at  Aulis. 

For  after  all,  the  supreme  interest  here  is  the  deserted 
harbor,  the  invisible  ships,  the  vanished  temples.  Yet 
Nature  also  is  in  harmony  with  the  spell,  if  she  does  not 
produce  it ;  the  blue  waters  beneath  us  gush  around  the 
keel  in  quiet  joy ;  the  gentle  curvature  of  the  hills  throws 
its  soft  lines  against  the  sky ;  these  hills  too  are  waves  in 
that  fixed  rocky  sea  above,  now  also  faintly  blue  with 
haze ;  over  their  tops  Apollo  with  the  coyness  of  a  new 
love  tenderly  feels  with  his  golden  fingers.  It  is  classic 
repose  in  classic  outline ;  the  soul  into  which  these  sum- 
mits have  been  born  can  never  tolerate  extravagance, 
violence,  horror.  In  that  line  of  tranquil  undulation, 
there  is  movement,  much  movement,  but  no  throes,  no 
wild  fury.  There  is  struggle,  —  for  note  how  yonder 
mountain  strives  to  reach  above  its  neighbors ;  still  there 
is  the  final  reconciliation,  the  final  solution  of  the  conflict 
in  a  grand  harmony.  Passion  too  is  here,  the  heights 
roll  and  heave  over  some  mighty  throbbing  heart,  but 


AULIS  AND   CHALKIS.  181 

there  is  no  giving  way,  no  despair ;  each  throb  reveals  the 
motion  of  a  Grace  and  its  very  calmness  signifies  its  en-, 
ergy.  Blood-red  intensity  you  will  say,  yet  somehow 
united  with  a  sunny  tranquillity,  making  a  new  sweet  but 
deep-moving  music  over  these  heights. 

You,  the  spectator,  are  drawn  into  the  soul  of  this 
landscape,  though  the  crowd  in  the  boat  laugh  at  your 
absence  of  mind;  emotions  awake  deeply  within  you, 
though  they  cannot  boil  over  into  frenzy,  passions  even 
rise  but  are  gifted  with  a  strange  self-control.  You  are 
rent  with  some  unseen  conflict,  some  unconscious  strug- 
gle, as  if  the  old  powers  still  lurked  in  the  place  and 
wrought  upon  you  with  demonic  S}'mpathy.  What  is  the 
matter  with  you?  What  influence  is  this  which  hurls  you 
into  the  hopes,  the  fears — into  all  the  tossings  of  a 
conflict  which  does  not  exist  for  the  sober  senses  —  is  it 
memory,  is  it  imagination  merely,  or  the  nature  around 
you  ?  You  weep  or  are  ready  to  weep  amid  the  wild  gay- 
ety  of  the  company  in  your  boat ;  you  struggle  within 
yourself,  you  resolve,  you  make  the  sacrifice,  you  repent. 
Finally  you  ask  yourself :  Whom  shall  I  place  in  this  land- 
scape to  give  it  expression  ?  Whom  shall  I  place  here 
to  give  myself  expression  ?  For  the  typical  person  must 
be  found  around  whom  these  dim  emotions  cluster,  and  in 
whom  they  have  utterance ;  thus  they  are  thrown  out  of 
you  and  give  you  relief  from  their  throng.  Already,  I 
imagine,  you  have  had  glimpses  of  a  form  flitting  through 
your  soul  amid  the  clouds  of  feeling ;  that  form  begins 
to  walk  out  of  darkness  into  the  gleaming  radiance  of 
sunshine  ;  it  is  a  young  virgin  dressed  in  spotless  white  ; 
there  she  stands  before  you  in  clearest  plastic  outline. 
Who  is  she?  '  And  who  is  that  man  standing  behind  her, 
in  brazen  helm  and  mailed  coat  with  a  spear  in  his  hands. 
He  seems  a  Jove-born  king,  of  great  authority  in  his 
look  and  pride  in  his  mien  ;  yet  there  is  deep  tenderness, 
nay,  sadness  in  his  eye.  It  is  Iphigenia  with  her  father 
Agamemnon  ;  they  have  just  landed  on  yonder  round 
island  in  the  bay,  upon  whose  summit  the  temple  stands  ; 
he  drops  behind  her  secretly  to  throw  away  a  tear. 

Bump  —  we  too  are  landed  ;  the  boat  strikes  the  shore 


182  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

heavily,  having  crossed  again  the  harbor  of  Aulis.  I  am 
,  thrown  forward  by  the  jolt  into  the  lap  of  the  Cretan 
schoolmaster,  the  crabbed  Didaskali,  who  asks  me  to  ac- 
company him  directly  to  his  school.  We  soon  enter  the 
building,  which  is  substantial,  but  has  no  floor ;  twenty- 
five  little  urchins  walk  about  in  the  dust  with  this  clear 
advantage,  which  the  expert  will  not  fail  to  appreciate :  it 
makes  their  steps  wholly  noiseless.  Every  one  of  them  is 
stockingless  still  in  February ;  they  wear  low  sharp-pointed 
pumps  and  high  trowsers,  the  naked  flesh  intervening  you 
may  imagine,  if  you  wish.  As  soon  as  the  Didaskali 
enters,  his  impatience  begins  to  manifest  itself ;  he  finds 
fault  with  all  that  he  sees  and  with  whatever  has  been  done 
during  his  absence ;  nearly  every  boy  into  whose  copy- 
book he  looks,  receives  a  thump.  The  son  of  the 
Didaskali,  a  youth  of  about  fifteen,  helps  him  teach,  and 
presides  during  his  absence  ;  that  son  had  his  cap  knocked 
off  his  head  across  the  room  by  his  irate  father.  The 
term  zoon,  animal,  was  the  favorite  word  of  the  Didaskali, 
though  he  employed  other  heavy  artillery  of  that  sort 
which  I  did  not  fully  understand,  except  its  thunder. 
Taking  me  along,  with  switch  in  hand,  he  goes  around 
the  room  and  inspects  the  hands  of  the  little  fellows ;  he 
strikes  their  fingers  light  or  hard  with  his  switch  in  pro- 
portion to  the  dirt  on  them.  Cleanliness  received  that 
day  an  immense  advancement  in  Aulis.  But  judging  by 
the  condition  of  those  fingers  generally,  I  could  not  be- 
lieve that  such  a  tour  had  been  the  teacher's  habit  every 
day ;  the  reflection  would  force  itself  upon  the  pedagogic 
mind  that  he  did  all  this  for  the  special  honor  of  visitors  — 
as  some  of  his  fellow-craftsmen  do  in  other  lands  upon 
occasion. 

Yet  the  boys  are  learning,  the  school  is  by  no  means 
bad.  They  write  well,  spell  readily  from  dictation,  and 
are  drilled  thoroughly  in  the  rudiments  of  arithmetic  and 
geography.  Certainly  the  country  schools  which  I  at- 
tended in  youth  were  not  better,  some  in  our  land  are  far 
worse  to-day.  The  seats  and  desks  are  of  the  improved 
kind,  there  is  a  blackboard  and  it  is  used.  The  main  ob- 
ject of  primary  education  is  manifestly  attained  here ;  the 


AULIS  AND   CHALKIS.  183 

common  branches,  those  great  instrumentalities  of  all 
cull  ure,  are  placed  in  the  possession  of  every  pupil.  If 
^any  of  these  boys  has  the  divine  spark  within  him,  he  has 
now  the  means  in  his  hand  to  kindle  it  into  a  flame.  Also 
there  was  order,  though  it  was  too  much  the  discipline  of 
terror.  Very  interesting  it  was  to  hear  the  old  verbs 
conjugated  with  the  instinct  of  a  spoken  tongue  —  verbs 
which  were  droned  over  by  young  Thucydides  and  Xeno- 
phon.  Nothing  can  please  the  lover  of  Greek  literature 
and  of  that  ancient  Greek  world  more  than  to  see  these 
old  forms  and  expressions  welling  up  again  into  the 
spontaneity  of  living  speech.  Therefore  the  Greek  school 
is  the  most  interesting  of  all  schools  and  one  of  the  most 
interesting  things  in  Greece.  Do  not  pass  it  by  in  your 
trip. 

But  the  Didaskali  is  a  grumbler;  knocked  over  and 
belabored  by  ill-fortune,  he  has  become  all  bruised  and 
crumpled  up  in  spirit;  I  cannot  think  of  straightening 
him  out  now ;  it  seriously  clouds  my  Greek  mood  even  to 
be  with  him.  First,  he  has  the  eternal  grievance  of  all 
teachers  that  I  ever  saw,  male  or  female :  he  receives  too 
little  salary.  This  is  sixty  drachmas  a  month,  he  informs 
me ;  in  our  money  less  than  twelve  dollars.  Yet  I  have 
to  tell  him  that  poverty-stricken  Greece  pays  relatively 
better  salaries  than  rich  America  to  her  instructors,  which 
is  verily  not  much  consolation.  Then  too  the  lack  of 
promotion  is  another  complaint,  for  he  feels  himself 
capable  of  teaching  in  the  Hellenic  School,  the  next 
higher  grade ;  in  fact  he  knows  himself  to  be  far  more 
deserving  than  a  certain  Demosthenes  who  has  been  put 
up  by  favoritism. 

Here  then  is  another  case  of  unappreciated  genius, 
which  we  never  fail  to  meet,  whithersoever  we  may  turn 
upon  our  broad  earth ;  to  greatness  that  is  unknown  the 
world  is  indeed  cold  and  indifferent.  A  sort  of  disease 
one  may  call  it,  of  which  hardly  any  human  being,  how- 
ever humble,  is  free ;  at  some  moment,  whatever  his 
stoicism,  he  will  be  heard  to  cry  out  in  pain:  Alas,  I  am 
an  unrecognized  mortal  in  this  life !  The  malady  has 
seized  our  schoolmaster  in  its  most  violent  and  eruptive 


184  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

form,  breaking  out  continually  into  speech,  whose  burden 
is,  My  genius  is  not  appreciated  at  Aulis.  So  he  heralds 
the  fact  to  me,  and  I  herald  it  to  you  who  listen  and  are 
touched  upon  a  chord  more  or  less  responsive.  Such  is, 
at  bottom,  the  trouble  with  the  Didas kali's  discordant 
temper ;  for  what  harmony  can  come  from  a  soul  that  so 
profoundly  believes  in  its  own  genius,  yet  has  to  live  in  a 
world  that  so  profoundly  disbelieves  in  the  same,  or  is 
totally  ignorant  of  it?  Shrillest  discord  must  result  when 
such  a  soul  and  such  a  world  come  in  contact  with  each 
other,  as  they  have  to  do ;  yet  it  is  a  very  human  note, 
universally  heard  among  men.  The  traveler  may  laugh  a 
little  at  the  Didaskali,  but  has  to  reply  sympathetically: 
Yours  is  just  my  case,  too,  in  my  country ;  I  also  am  not 
appreciated  there ;  but  our  talents  are  invincible,  our 
merits  are  bound  to  shine  through  all  clouds  of  envy  and 
favoritism  into  full  recognition,  if  we  can  only  in  the 
meantime  keep  in  a  good  humor. 

His  abode  was  in  a  room  to  the  rear  of  the  school- 
house,  where  he  boarded  himself  with  his  boy.  He  com- 
plained of  his  wretched  quarters,  and  his  room  did  look 
as  if  no  woman's  hand  had  been  there  for  many  a  day. 
Unwashed  plates  and  spoons,  table  and  bed  were  promis- 
cuously scattered  about  the  room,  which  state  of  things 
seems  to  be  his  own  fault.  A  pot  of  beans  was  boiling 
over  the  fire  for  his  meal ;  this  with  the  recinatois  enough 
for  human  want.  Miserable  existence,  he  cried.  I  an- 
swered :  no,  my  friend,  I  deem  your  lot  an  enviable  one, 
I  would  like  to  exchange  with  you.  To  be  schoolmaster  in 
Aulis  is  to  be  prince  of  schoolmasters  ;  heroes  are  your 
next  neighbors,  poets  are  your  dearest  friends  ;  monarchs 
are  your  associates,  if  there  ever  were  monarchs  on  this 
earth.  Homer,  Pindar,  Aeschylus  are  here  with  an  infinite 
train  of  successors  who  have  made  this  spot  the  setting  for 
their  rarest  jewels.  And  those  old  heroes  who  still  haunt 
this  place  —  whose  tramp  can  still  be  heard  on  the  night- 
air  and  whose  oars  still  rustle  over  yon  bay  in  the  evening 
wind  —  are  they  no  company  for  you?  Give  me  your 
school,  this  room  where  we  now  are,  your  pot  of  beans 
and  demijohn  of  recinato,  with  those  rare  old  books  of 


AULIS  AND   CHALKIS.  185 

Troy  —  and  I  should  be  -willing  to  stay  here  forever.  I 
should  like,  however,  before  I  begin,  to  have  these  dishes 
washed  and  the  bed  cleaned  up  —  I  did  not  speak  aloud 
this  last  sentence,  but  I  could  not  help  thinking  it. 

I  now  escape  from  my  colleague  who  has  told  me  so 
much  more  than  I  wanted  to  hear  of,  supposing  by  my 
look  that  I  knew  all  about  his  sort  of  grievances,  and  I 
make  my  way  across  the  fields  to  the  hills  overlooking  the 
bay.  That  will  be  a  relief  indeed,  for  there  far  other 
company  awaits  the  sojourner  at  Aulis.  The  common 
people  when  I  meet  them  on  the  road,  stop  and  curiously 
inquire:  Where  are  you  going?  What  business  have 
you  here  ?  Not  in  an  unfriendly  spirit,  but  in  simple  rus- 
tic curiosity  they  catch  me  by  the  arm  and  hold  me,  as  if 
I  or  they  belonged  to  the  brigands.  The  word  which  one 
hears  holds  buried  within  it  a  whole  history  of  society  — 
ti  douleia,  what  occupation  is  yours  —  literally  what  slave- 
labor  is  yours,  for  in  antiquity  the  slave  chiefly  labored ; 
but  now  that  word  has  come  to  mean  simply  work,  thus 
resembling  our  word  service.  As  the  slave  has  risen  into 
the  free  laborer  in  the  course  of  centuries,  so  has  that 
word  been  ennobled  along  with  him,  till  now  there  is  no 
object  corresponding  to  its  former  sense,  and  it  indicates 
one  weighty  point  of  superiority  which  modern  has  over 
ancient  Greece.  Ti  douleia  still  heard  on  these  hills  gives 
a  peep  back  through  two  thousand  years  when  slave  met 
slave  on  this  spot  and  asked :  what  slave-labor  is  yours  ? 

Before  a  house  or  rather  in  the  door  of  a  house  in  one 
place  a  man  sits  thrumming  a  stringed  instrument  whose 
notes  vibrate  softly  on  the  sunbeams  in  some  secret  har- 
mony, you  must  believe,  with  the  mellow  golden  after- 
noon. It  may 'be  the  old  lyre  in  one  of  its  forms,  it  has 
the  sweet  low  thrill  of  the  Italian  mandoline  when  there  is 
a  perfect  lull  in  the  air.  Into  its  strain  there  fall  at  inter- 
vals the  stray  notes  of  a  song,  as  if  the  idle  player  was 
merely  preluding  at  random  to  his  own  vacant  fancies. 
In  front  of  his  eye  as  it  glances  out  of  the  door  lies  the 
harbor  of  Aulis  whose  distant  waters  seem  to  be  gently 
quivering  to  the  touch  of  the  instrument.  Will  any  one 
blame  the  traveler  as  too  fantastic,  if  he  again  thinks  of 


186  A  WALK  IX  HELLAS. 

Homer's  men  —  of  Achilles  who  was  found  before  his  tent 
playing  his  harp  to  his  own  dear  soul,  when  the  embassy 
of  Greek  chieftains  came  to  pacify  his  anger  and  to  urge 
his  return  to  the  war?  But  this  present  hero  is  not 
Achilles,  nor  does  he  seem  to  have  any  destructive  wrath, 
nor  has  he  lost  his  Briseis,  who  just  now  stands  before 
his  tent  wrestling  violently  with  a  sullied  fustanella. 

Therefore  we  may  pass  on.  But  at  the  view  of  the  bay 
and  of  the  hills  the  secret  combat  rises  again  in  the 
breast,  the  two  antique  forms  come  up  with  startling  dis- 
tinctness, filled  with  their  intense  conflict.  Do  what  you 
will,  every  other  deed,  every  other  shape  is  swallowed  up 
in  the  struggle  between  father  and  daughter.  She,  the 
young,  the  innocent,  the  spotless,  must  be  immolated  to 
a  supposed  necessity  of  State.  That  the  winds  may  blow 
favorably,  and  the  armament  sail  successfully  to  the 
Trojan  shore,  her  sacrifice  is  demanded,  for  to  the  Greek, 
to  her  own  father  far  more  important  it  seemed  that  Helen 
should  return  than  that  Iphigenia  should  live.  It  is  an 
old  but  undying  theme,  which  both  ancient  and  modern 
poets  have  treated  with  a  tragic  depth  and  energy; 
woman,  guiltless  and  removed  from  political  strife,  is 
nevertheless  snatched  from  the  Family  and  made  to  suffer 
or  even  to  perish  that  ends  of  State  may  be  attained ; 
whether  she  be  the  king's  own  daughter  Iphigenia,  of- 
fered for  the  sake  of  the  great  national  enterprise,  or  the 
modern  princess,  Blanche,  led  to  a  political  marriage 
bringing  peace  to  the  nation  perhaps,  but  to  herself  only 
wretchedness  and  slow  death. 

Furthermore,  that  these  early  Greeks  should  sacrifice 
virgin  purity  to  beauty  distained  is  a  prophecy,  a  double 
prophecy :  it  foretells  the  supreme  glory  of  their  career, 
and  at  the  same  time  indicates  the  moral  disease  which 
must  finally  eat  away  their  character  and  energy.  They 
will  bring  back  Helen  to  Greece  and  realize  beauty  be- 
yond all  other  peoples,  but  the  ethical  violation  hinted  in 
the  death  of  Iphigenia  will  remain  and  become  the  seed 
of  inner  corruption.  For  mark !  she  and  what  she  repre- 
sents is  gone,  destroyed  ;  her  fate  will  wake  the  avenging 
Nemesis  that  will  bring  back  her  loss  to  the  people  who 


AULIS  AND   CHALKIS.  187 

have  immolated  her,  and  hence  possess  her  no  longer. 
Thus  they  reveal  themselves  and  their  destiny  in  their 
legend. 

It  is  true  that  the  ancient  legend  rescues  Iphigenia  from 
the  sacrificial  altar  by  the  intervention  of  the  Goddess 
Artemis.  But  she  is  taken  to  a  barbarous  land,  to  Tauris, 
where  she  is  preserved  as  a  priestess  to  the  divinity  who 
saved  her ;  there  too  she  becomes  the  bearer  of  all  that 
Greece  represents.  Again  look  at  the  prophetic  image 
in  the  legend,  for  it  is  the  Barbarians,  that  is,  those  who 
are  not  Greeks,  the  modern  world  if  you  please,  who  have 
taken  up  and  saved  Iphigenia,  cherishing  her  with  a 
deathless  affection,  while  she  on  the  other  hand  as  priestess 
of  the  temple  in  foreign  lands,  has  brought  to  them  the 
humanizing  influences  of  Greek  culture.  Chiefly  from 
such  a  point  of  view  is  the  famous  Iphigenia  of  Goethe 
written,  the  finest  of  all  the  dramatic  elaborations  of  this 
legend.  In  it  we  see  the  modern  Barbarian,  now  the  Poet 
filled  with  the  inspiration  of  the  Grecian  priestess,  and 
paying  back  to  her  a  tribute  greater  and  more  beautiful 
than  any  thing  which  she  herself  has  received  or  trans- 
mitted. 

But  the  old  Greek  legend  likewise  brings  her  back  from 
Tauris,  after  many  years  of  banishment  and  priestly  serv- 
ice, to  Greece,  restores  her  from  the  hands  of  the  Barba- 
rians to  her  ancient  home.  Such  is  indeed  that  prophetic 
myth  which  our  own  time  has  seen  fulfilled,  but  which  the 
dawn  of  Goethe's  poem  has  not  yet  beheld.  For  it  is  the 
strong  arm  of  those  whom  Greece  called  Barbarians,  but 
to  whom  she  imparted  her  culture,  which  has  broken  her 
chains  and  restored  her  to  freedom  and  nationality.  Nay, 
they  have  brought  back  her  own  civilization  to  herself,  in- 
creased with  tenfold  spoils,  it  is  true,  but  still  bearing 
her  impress.  So  we  may  now  say  with  the  old  legend 
that  Iphigenia  has  returned  to  Greece. 

The  account  of  the  sacrifice  of  Iphigenia  is  not  the 
creation  of  Homer ;  the  entire  story  at  Aulis  he  passes 
over  in  silence.  On  the  contrary  it  is  a  development  of 
later  Greek  consciousness,  of  the  tragic  and  not  of  the 
epic  spirit,  though  it  doubtless  had  its  germ  in  the 


188  A    WALK  Itf  HELLAS. 

Homeric  Age.  This  intense  conflict  in  which  father  sac- 
rifices daughter  belongs  to  the  domain  of  tragedy.  Two 
struggling  principles,  each  with  its  own  right,  assail  each 
other  in  the  very  bosom  of  the  Family,  and  just  at  that 
point  where  its  tenderest  emotions  are  knit  together. 
The  time  of  the  tragic  poets  was  indeed  a  tragic  time, 
whereof  they  are  the  true  outgrowth,  a  time  in  which 
Greece  was  immolating  her  own  daughter,  and  was  grow- 
ing conscious  of  the  fact,  which  consciousness  found  its 
intense  expression  in  the  drama. 

Yet,  on  the  other  hand,  we  must  not  misunderstand 
that  father,  Agamemnon.  He  was  leader  of  the  Greek 
hosts,  the  representative  of  the  Greek  State ;  moreover 
he  possessed  the  heroic  character,  which  sacrifices  all 
feelings  to  the  public  end,  and  courageously  endures. 
The  pang  in  his  breast  for  the  death  of  his  child  was  as 
great  as  that  of  any  parent.  We  must  not  suppose  that 
he  was  devoid  of  tenderness  and  pity ;  on  the  contrary 
they  surged  up  and  dashed  around  his  purpose  like  the 
waves  of  the  sea  in  a  tempest.  Still  that  purpose  stood,  had 
to -stand,  firm  as  a  rock  mid  the  terrific  upheaval  of  emo- 
tions ;  for  he  must  be  the  hero,  placed  there  at  the  head  of 
the  expedition,  he  must  subordinate  to  the  great  national 
end  all  his  feelings  ;  the  most  piercing  cries  of  his  own 
soul  in  anguish  cannot,  make  him  waver  for  a  moment. 
Once  more  take  a  glance  with  me  over  the  waters ;  can 
you  not,  on  yon  round  island  aslant  the  evening  sun- 
beams, behold  the  father,  pale,  trembling,  weeping,  yet 
resolute  —  now  leading  his  daughter,  robed  in  white  folds, 
up  the  knoll  to  the  altar  ?  There  is  the  temple  of  Arte- 
mis, within  whose  marble  embrace  the  two  forms  slowly 
disappear ;  the  eyes  of  the  Greek  hosts  who  look  on  from 
this  shore  with  us,  and  from  the  ships  lying  over  the  bay, 
are  not  dry  —  nor  are  mine. 

Then  a  voice  comes  to  me  and  asks :  would  }TOU  sacri- 
fice your  daughter  to  the  State  ?  No,  I  would  not,  I  an- 
swer, not  directly  at  least.  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  a 
hero,  do  not  wish  to  be  one.  This  is  sentimental,  it  is 
true  ;  but  I  am  sentimental  upon  this  subject.  I  do  not 
wish  to  pay  such  a  large  price  for  heroism,  I  prefer  to  be 


AULIS  AND   CHALKIS.  189 

ignoble  and  keep  my  Iphigenia.  Still  Agamemnon  paid 
it,  had  to  pay  it,  all  great  world-historical  characters  pay 
that  or  a  greater  price  for  their  destiny.  This  is  just  the 
tragedy  of  the  hero  —  the  conflict  within  tears  him  to 
pieces  ;  still  he,  subjecting  his  emotions  to  his  principle, 
heroically  makes  the  sacrifice.  But  we  have  no  such  sac- 
rifice to  make  in  this  expedition,  praise  be  to  Artemis 
and  the  rest  of  the  Gods  ;  no  world-sustaining  heroism  is 
now  required ;  all  the  omens  are  propitious,  all  the  winds 
are  favorable ;  besides,  we  are  going  to  take  a -new  route 
in  the  pursuit  of  the  fair  runaway. 

Thus  the  Agamemnon  of  the  Iliad  is  not  wholly  the 
Agamemnon  of  Aulis,  though  the  two  fuse  together  in  the 
imagination ;  the  latter  the  tragedians  have  modeled, 
making  him  the  bearer  of  a  terrific  internal  struggle,  in 
addition  to  his  being  in  the  external  struggle  with  Troy, 
which  now  falls  into  the  background.  This  transition 
from  the  outer  to  the  inner  conflict  indicates  a  deepening 
of  life  and  of  consciousness ;  spiritual  suffering  has 
seized  hold  of  man,  and  that  simple,  happy  epical  world 
of  Homer  has  departed  forever.  Such  is  the  soul  of  the 
legend  which  can  be  felt  even  through  the  superficial 
half-mocking  treatment  of  Euripides.  Still  the  scenery 
of  Aulis  throws  the  beholder  into  that  ancient  tragic 
struggle,  he  lives  it  over  again  within  himself  as  he  saun- 
ters around  the  hills,  looks  up  at  the  skies,  and  floats 
over  the  waters. 

Whether  these  characters  were  ever  living  persons  or 
not,  whether  the  Trojan  war  be  historical  or  not,  can 
make  little  difference.  That  conflict  has  furnished  the 
most  abiding  types  for  the  race,  tj^pes  of  heroism,  endur- 
ance, wisdom.  And  what  more  can  History  do  than 
furnish  its  great  characters  —  those  eternal  *  symbols  by 
which  whole  ages  think,  live  and  die?  Here  at  Aulis 
once  more  rises  the  thought  of  the  struggle  between  the 
East  and  the  West ;  all  the  Greek  armament  was  ani- 
mated by  this  principle  ;  the  Iliad  is  but  the  first  heroic 
utterance  of  the  conflict.  The  day  lowers,  but  the 
traveler  is  filled  with  the  spirit  of  the  air  —  it  is  the  same 
air  breathed  by  those  ancient  heroes  and  is  still  laden  with 


190  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

all  the  energy  of  the  old  enterprise.  Nay,  the  conflict 
between  East  and  West  is  here  before  him  to-day, 
smothered  though  quivering,  as  he  looks  out  toward 
Troy. 

My  friends,  you  will  recollect  that  our  last  turning- 
point,  whence  we  began  a  new  direction  in  our  journey, 
was  at  Marathon.  The  battle  there  was  historical  —  the 
greatest  battle  in  History.  On  its  plain  the  East  and  West 
grappled ;  it  was  the  East  which  then  attacked,  but  was 
victoriously  met  and  repulsed.  We  have  marched  forward 
to  Aulis,  it  is  true,  but  in  reality  we  have  gone  backward 
into  the  twilight  of  fable.  Now  the  Greeks  are  the  ag- 
gressive side,  and  assail  their  enemies  on  Asiatic  soil,  yet 
it  is  the  same  question,  the  same  principle  at  issue.  But 
to  pass  from  Marathon  to  Aulis  means  to  remount  from 
clear  history  into  the  misty  mythical  origin ;  still  this 
myth  expresses  better  than  history  the  dim  primitive 
instinct,  the  unconscious  germ  of  the  Hellenic  world. 
This  goal,  then,  we  have  reached,  yet  not  the  further 
road  to  Troy  shall  we  go,  but  turn  from  Aulis  and  move 
forward  to  a  still  deeper  phase  of  Greek  spirit,  —  to  the 
seat  of  oracular  wisdom  and  of  reconciliation.  Through 
Thebes,  full  of  profounder  tragic  destinies  than  even 
Aulis,  we  shall  pass  toward  the  place  of  harmony,  toward 
the  God  whom  Hellas  chiefly  adored  in  the  greatest  and 
intensest  period  of  her  life,  and  whom  she  besought  to 
harmonize  her  inner  struggles.  In  the  track  of  Orestes 
driven  by  Furies,  we  shall  approach  the  temple  of  Apollo 
the  light-darter,  who  could  bring  atonement  to  the  guilty 
soul  and  thus  solve  the  ancient  tragedy.  Here  then  we 
stand  at  the  very  opening  of  our  Western  world.  Having 
courageously  marched  thus  far,  and  having  cast  many 
delighted  glances  into  that  dawn  across  the  sea,  we  may 
catch  breath  again  for  a  few  minutes  before  we  turn  up 
the  road  toward  Delphi,  the  next  stadium  of  Greek 
civilization. 


FSOM  AULIS   TO    THEBES.  191 


IX.  FROM  AULIS  TO  THEBES. 

Early  in  the  morning  Varvouillya  stood  before  the 
wine-shop  with  his  two  donkeys ;  he  called  me  out,  who 
was  there  celebrating  a  farewell  to  Aulis  in  company  with 
three  or  four  citizens.  I  grasped  my  staff  and  knapsack 
and  hurried  into  the  street,  Varvouillya  grunted  at  the 
beasts  of  destiny,  and  our  procession  began  to  move  up 
through  the  main  thoroughfare  of  Aulis  towards  Thebes. 
The  Cretan  schoolmaster  with  friendly  smiles  came  out  of 
his  house  and  saluted  me ;  in  the  sunshine  of  this  Greek 
morning  he  looks  as  if  he  had  resolved  during  the  night 
never  to  get  into  a  bad  humor  again,  being  now  in  the  first 
full  glow  of  his  new  resolution.  Also  the  Nestor  of  the 
hamlet  appeared,  standing  before  his  gate  and  leaning  on 
his  staff,  with  enthusiastic  gleams  ploughing  his  wrinkled 
features  as  I  shook  his  hand.  Happy  old  man,  with  a 
background  to  his  age  fresh  as  the  blooming  meadows ; 
for  behold  that  young  Greek  wife  of  his  now  peering  out 
of  the  door  behind  him,  with  a  babe  in  her  arms.  One 
may  well  liken  him  to  the  aged  olive-tree  of  Aulis,  not  far 
from  which  he  is  standing  —  wrinkled,  bent,  silver-haired, 
but  ever  sending  forth  fresh  blossoms. 

The  village  was  astir  for  the  duties  of  the  day,  white 
fustanellas  were  hurrying  in  every  direction  toward  the 
fields.  Many  women  were  already  at  the  various  pools 
and  fountains  engaged  in  heavy  labor,  others  were  pass- 
ing thither  with  rude  troughs  and  batlets  on  their  shoul- 
ders. Soon  the  last  house  is  behind  us,  and  we  see  the 
husbandman  at  his  work ;  he  is  trimming  his  vineyard  or 
plowing  with  a  yoke  of  oxen,  seldom  with  horses.  The 
plow  which  he  employs  has  a  very  primitive  look,  not  very 
different  from  the  Homeric  plow.  Yet  I  ought  in  justice 
to  add  that  along  my  route  I  have  also  seen  modern 
plows.  The  land  which  he  turns  over  seems  rich  where  it 
is  arable,  but  it  is  often  rocky.  Certainly  a  much  greater 
portion  of  it  could  be  brought  under  cultivation ;  some 


.192  A    WALK  IX  HELLAS. 

blastment  rests  upon  the  soil,  lying  here  rudely  tilled  or 
ofteu  wholly  neglected.  The  earth,  the  great  original 
implement  of  man,  is  not  half  utilized  by  those  who  are 
wielding  it  here  at  present. 

The  morning  changes  to  heaviness,  the  sky  lowers  and 
begins  to  threaten,  except  from  the  East  where  through  a 
rifted  cloud  Helius  persists  at  short  intervals  in  strewing 
his  golden  arrows  over  the  Euboic  hills.  What  are  you 
thinking  of  as  you  gaze  at  the  heavens  ?  On  such  a  morn- 
ing as  this  the  ancient  sacrifice  might  have  been  made ; 
through  the  darkened  canopy  above,  the  Goddess  broke 
in  effulgence  and  rescued  the  virgin  from  the  altar.  On 
the  Euripus  are  now  standing  white  sails,  in  listless  calm, 
seeming  to  rise  straight  out  of  the  water,  for  in  that  dis- 
tance no  hull  can  be  distinguished.  Two  or  three  such 
little  boats  are  at  this  moment  to  be  seen,  flecking  the 
blue  surface ;  each  sail  is  an  expanded  swan's  wing  hover- 
ing over  the  sea ;  they  multiply  at  once  to  a  thousand  sails 
floating  around  the  full  swelling  island  capped  by  the 
white  temple.  Scarce  a  breath  of  wind  can  be  felt,  cer- 
tainly there  are  now  no  unfavorable  breezes  for  Troy,  the 
Goddess  has  been  manifestly  appeased  this  morning. 

The  locality  grows  upon  the  traveler,  and  he  leaves  it 
unwillingly.  Slowly  he  walks  up  the  slightly  ascending 
plain  which  lies  to  the  rear  of  Aulis ;  often  he  turns 
around  and  looks  at  the  sea,  fair  Euripus,  whose  waters 
are  still  quivering  in  the  distance  with  some  hidden  strong 
emotion  ;  he  is  indeed  parting  from  that  which  he  loves. 
He  is  filled  with  the  spirit  of  the  air  which  is  charged 
with  the  ancient  enterprise.  Doubtless  memory  aids  him 
in  calling  up  that  world  long  since  passed  away ;  but  there 
must  be  something  else,  I  believe ;  there  must  be  some 
hidden  sympathy  of  nature,  for  nature,  too,  preserves 
dim  memories  of  the  great  deeds  that  have  been  enacted 
before  her,  and  retains  the  faint  impress  of  heroic  forms 
that  have  once  been  in  her  presence.  So  he  would  fain 
think ;  at  any  rate,  there  is  the  one  emotion,  the  one 
central  figure  here.  Ah  Iphigenia,  what  a  symbol  hast 
thou  become  for  men !  All  thy  struggles,  all  the  struggles 
of  thy  wretched  parents  rise  in  my  breast  as  I  thread 


FROM  AULIS   TO   THEBES.  193 

around  through  the  hills.  I  have  to  wrestle  with  thy  con- 
flicts, they  seethe  within  me  as  if  they  were  my  own ;  I 
am  indeed  become  one  with  thee.  Now  I  turn  across  the 
last  comb  of  the  hill,  Aulis  passes  out  of  sight,  still  thy 
struggles  are  raging  within  me  nor  can  I  rid  myself  of 
thy  heart-piercing  destiny.  Why  is  it,  I  ask  myself. 
Because  thou  art  truly  a  sacred  symbol  of  mankind, 
not  a  mere  thing  of  reality —  thou  art  a  Universal,  em- 
bracing all  men  in  thy  sad  destiny,  and  for  them  thou 
dost  suffer. 

Yet  it  is  but  a  story,  there  is  no  reality  in  all  these 
events,  they  never  took  place.  This  does  not  alter  the 
case,  in  fact  it  increases  their  significance.  Very  pro- 
found and  far-reaching  is  the  saying  of  the  old  philoso- 
pher, that  fable  is  truer  than  history.  The  legends  of  the 
race  are  still  worth  more  than  its  history,  its  poets  are  to 
be  placed  a  great  way  before  its  historians.  The  pure 
fact  is  often  an  insignificant  thing  compared  to  the  pure 
fancy.  For  the  fable  of  a  people  can  embrace  its  whole 
truth  —  all  that  it  spiritually  possesses,  institutions, 
religion,  art,  character.  No  mere  record  of  what  hap- 
pened here  and  there,  no  account  of  political  and  social 
events  can  show  its  entire  life,  its  whole  truth.  But  the 
genuine  myth  will  manifest  its  vital  principle  and  put  the 
same  into  an  eternal  type  outside  of  Space  and  Time ; 
while  history  is  of  all  things  in  Space  and  Time,  broken 
off  at  each  end,  and  often  cracked  badly  in  the  middle. 
Yet  do  not  underrate  history  —  only  this  torso  is  ours 
to-day,  and  we  should  preserve  it  with  sacred  care  as  our 
chief  boon  ;  for  we  moderns  can  no  longer  make  myths, 
we  can  make  only  history.  But  if  there  be  a  few  who 
may  still  be  able  to  construct  a  mythical  world,  we  may 
well  give  them  the  honors  due  to  the  Poet  and  the 
Prophet. 

Still  certain  historical  questions  will  rise  at  Aulis,  and 
demand  some  answer.  It  is  the  play  of  erudition  to  give 
as  many  responses  as  possible,  since  all  of  them  are 
equally  without  value.  One  such  question  comes  up  be- 
fore me  just  now :  why  was  Aulis  selected  as  the  place 
of  assembling  the  forces  of  Greece?  Or,  why  did  the 

13 


194  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

Poet  select  this  spot  ?  Either  of  these  inquiries  must 
remain  a  question  of  mere  historic  probability,  and 
hence  any  answer  to  it  is  intrinsically  worthless.  Aulis 
is  as  good  a  geographical  center  as  any  other  protected 
harbor  in  Greece  ;  but  for  no  small  portion  of  the  arma- 
ment it  was  the  less  convenient  place.  Let  us  then  con- 
jecture political  reasons :  the  restoration  of  Helen  was 
the  cause  of  Southern  Greece,  of  Menelaus  and  Agamem- 
non ;  it  was,  therefore,  necessary  to  take  every  means  of 
interesting  and  arousing  Northern  Greece,  of  giving  to 
that  part  of  the  country  the  easiest  opportunity  of  as- 
sembling. Ulysses  did  not  want  to  come,  according  to 
the  legend ;  his  little  island  lay  far  off  to  one  side.  But 
Boeotia,  Thessaly,  Phthia,  and  Northern  Greece  generally 
would  center  here.  So  we  may  go  on  spinning  conject- 
ures indefinitely  ;  they  are  the  merest  figments  of  proba- 
bility; the  answer  to  such  questions,  however  plausible, 
must  be  in  the  nature  of  the  case,  without  import. 

Historic  probabilities  let  us  have  as  little  to  do  with  as 
possible ;  they  are  the  poorest  glass  beads  that  we  can 
pick  up  on  our  way ;  very  sparingly  shall  they  be  strung 
on  the  variegated  strand  which  is  now  being  made  out  of 
the  incidents  of  our  Greek  journey.  For  instance,  what 
concerns  it  thee  whether  Achilles  was  ever  in  flesh  and 
blood,  whether  he  ever  was  a  spatial  reality  or  not?  Two 
things  can  at  present  be  affirmed  of  him  with  great  cer- 
tainty :  first,  that  his  flesh  and  blood  are  now  earth-mould, 
if  he  ever  possessed  them ;  secondly,  that  he  still  exists 
as  spirit  and  will  exist  perdurably.  The  last  fact  is  the 
interesting  and  worthy  one  for  us  in  many  ways  —  it  even 
hints  what  there  is  immortal  here  on  earth.  But  the  great 
question  of  erudition  whether  this  soul  of  the  hero  ever 
had  any  body,  may  be  dismissed  without  loss.  And  that 
still  greater  question  of  poverty-stricken  erudition  whether 
Homer  be  really  Homer  or  somebody  else  of -the  same 
name,  as  the  perplexed  student  once  put  it  most  accur- 
ately, ought  to  be  cast  away  as  a  worthless  counterfeit  of 
Greek  gold.  Suppose  that  he  is,  suppose  that  he  is  not, 
suppose  any  thing  —  what  difference  does  it  make  ?  Will 
that  give  us  a  new  Odyssey,  or  will  it  interpret  for  us  the 


FROM  AULIS  TO    THEBES.  195 

old  one  ?  Yet  there  is  a  tuneful  spirit  called  Homer  sing- 
ing through  the  ages  ;  even  now  a  voice  comes  riding  on 
the  air,  saying :  Why  hunt  after  my  body  which  has  per- 
ished, why  seek  for  my  existence  in  Space  and  Time  which 
has  vanished?  Listen  to  my  voice  —  that  is  my  immortal 
part,  that  is  what  I  have  left  unto  you  as  my  sole  gift. 
By  that  alone  may  I  be  remembered ! 

I  have  employed  the  word  symbol  quite  frequently,  but 
I  must  give  you  a  warning  in  regard  to  its  use.  The 
symbolism  of  the  Greeks  in  their  great  creative  period 
was  not  conscious,  was  not  design.  They  did  not  say : 
come,  let  us  make  a  symbol  for  all  the  world  and  for  all 
time.  Then  they  had  not  done  it,  they  would  have  lost 
the  very  germ  of  their  Art  —  spontaneity.  Unwittingly 
in  all  the  little  particulars  of  their  life  and  their  activity 
they  manifested  the  Generic,  the  Universal  —  they  could 
not  help  being  artists.  For  Art  must  always  have  this 
universal  side,  must  be  a  symbol  —  yet  on  the  other  hand 
it  cannot  be  divorced  from  the  living  spontaneous  actu- 
ality. To  succeeding  times  the  unconscious  insight  of 
the  Poet  may  become  a  conscious  reflection;  but  then 
its  true  poetical  nature  has  departed.  Later  in  their 
history  the  Greeks  betook  themselves  to  conscious  sym- 
bolizing ;  little  heed  do  we  pay  to  that  part  of  their  work 
now.  We  may  know  more  about  the  Poet's  process 
than  he  does  himself;  we  stand  and  look  on  while  the 
demon  struggles  within  him,  imparting  inspiration  or  fury 
perchance ;  but  his  and  not  ours  is  the  poetic  creative  act, 
ours  is  rather  the  act  of  destruction.  The  symbol,  recol- 
lect then,  whenever  the  term  is  employed,  lays  stress  upon 
this  universal  and  eternal  element  in  all  artistic  creation, 
yet  does  not  imply  conscious  purpose  on  part  of  the  artist. 

But  Aulis  has  now  passed  out  of  view,  and  must  be 
dropped ;  we  have  entered  a  small  valley  through  which 
we  are  winding  solitary ;  only  flocks  of  birds  rise  from  the 
fields,  whirl  in  the  air  for  a  moment,  then  flutter  into  the 
low  bushes.  There  are  no  trees,  the  soil  is  uutilled,  yet 
seems  capable  of  some  cultivation.  The  valley  is  delight- 
ful, the  breathing  of  its  atmosphere  is  like  a  draught  of 
mild  wine ;  it  is  watered  by  a  brook  running  through  the 


196  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

middle,  along  whose  border  passes  the  road.  Up  this 
road  or  rather  bridle-path  Varvouillya  is  driving  his 
donkeys,  which  move  slowly  through  the  landscape  with 
their  look  of  Oriental  resignation. 

I  have  now  been  with  Varvouillya  nearly  five  days,  and 
have  conceived  a  strong  liking  for  the  man.  He  is  a 
character  —  hardy  and  rugged,  yet  somewhat  mysterious, 
and  I  hold  him  to  be  honest.  For  forty  years  he  has 
driven  his  donkeys  over  these  hills  in  the  way  of  trans- 
portation and  small  trading.  At  Aulis  he  acquired  in 
some  transaction  an  old  flint-lock  which  he  now  carries 
slung  over  his  shoulders.  He  knows  every  point  of  the 
country,  and  is  acquainted  with  every  human  being  we 
meet.  Though  without  education  he  has  picked  up  in  this 
mode  of  life  a  great  deal  of  curious  information,  half 
mythical,  half  actual;  thereto  he  adds  experience  with 
men  and  a  rude  subtlety.  Moreover  he  is  the  possessor 
of  a  strong  rough  will,  with  a  very  decided  impulse  of 
generosity  and  of  hospitable  feeling.  He  is  evidently 
recognized  as  a  sort  of  leader  among  these  people ;  he  is 
of  them,  yet  with  a  little  stronger  purpose,  which  they 
feel  and  call  him  playfully  by  the  name  of  Capitanos. 
Humor  and  mockery  he  possesses  in  a  true  Greek  vein ; 
behind  the  wine-table  he  sits  deep-voiced,  with  a  phthisicky 
laugh  which  always  ends  in  a  red-faced  fit  of  coughing 
after  he  brings  out  the  point  to  one  of  his  best  stories. 
This  cough  is  always  heard  in  chorus  with  the  laughter  of 
the  merry  company. 

Thus  I  have  seen  him  during  these  days,  and  a  strong 
attachment  has  grown  up  between  us ;  to  his  appearance, 
even  to  his  garments,  I  am  now  fully  reconciled,  though 
at  first  both  were  objects  of  distrust.  Unshaven  for  some 
weeks,  his  beard  comes  out  bristling  over  his  face  in  frosty 
stubble ;  his  hair  too  is  grizzled  by  age,  but  is  still  full  of 
spirit ;  a  small  stained  cap  fitting  close  to  his  head  but 
unable  to  restrain  bunches  of  hair  from  gushing  out  in 
front  of  his  forehead  is  not  out  of  harmony  with  the  man 
and  his  general  costume.  His  body  is  slim,  wiry,  and 
supple ;  the  stubbled  face,  when  he  speaks,  is  lit  with  a 
smile  rudely  generous ;  a  large  wart  lies  just  on  the  tip  of 


FROM  AULIS   TO   THEBES.  197 

iris -nose,  and  flattens  out,  spreading  all  over  the  same 
when  he  laughs. 

But  the  mental  trait  which  chiefly  distinguishes  him  is 
the  mystery  in  which  he  vails  himself  to  the  world  and  the 
world  to  himself.  He  has  his  own  view  of  the  way  in 
which  thingg  are  done  in  this  universe  of  ours ;  a  super- 
natural power  peculiar  to  himself  reigns  in  the  invisible 
realm.  He  is  what  many  deep  and  uninformed  natures 
are  —  a  mystic,  perhaps  superstitious  ;  in  his  struggles  of 
life  events  have  taken  place  which  he  cannot  account  for 
by  ordinary  experience,  and  so  he  has  a  special  solution 
of  his  own.  Driving  his  mules  for  forty  years  over  the 
lone  hills  he  has  had  time  to  think  in  his  uncouth  way ; 
but  he  cannot  lift  the  cloud  from  the  world,  nor  from 
himself,  and  he  has  landed  where  nearly  all  ignorant  but 
inquiring  men  arrive  in  the  end.  Appearances  just  in 
this  locality  have  obliged  him  to  resort  to  a  mystical  ma- 
chinery ;  if  I  understand  him  aright  there  is  in  him  a  dash 
of  the  old  Greek  belief  in  Pan,  nymphs  and  satyrs,  yet  not 
now  dancing  in  ancient  sunlight,  but  enveloped  dimly  in 
clouds.  Indeed  who  can  live  in  intimacy  with  this 
Nature  without  feeling  her  old  influence  at  work 
upon  his  soul?  Still  she  subtly  creates  her  ancient 
forms  for  the  true-hearted  worshiper  leisurely  resign- 
ing himself  to  her  shaping  hand ;  even  the  prosaic 
traveler  she  will  transform,  to  the  wonder  of  every- 
body, if  he  but  submit  in  good  faith  to  her  gentle 
guidance. 

Varvouillya  is  a  curious  compound  of  the  ancient  and 
modern,  he  is  mixed  like  the  language  he  speaks,  like 
Greece  of  to-day.  He  was  born  in  Janina  under  Turkish 
rule ;  the  secretiveness  begotten  of  Turkish  oppression 
still  lurks  in  h'is  character.  In  many  ways  he  is  the  con- 
trast to  the  traveling  merchant  Aristides  previously  men- 
tioned—  far  more  reserved,  less  intelligent,  with  much 
less  education,  yet  with  a  stronger  character.  I  doubt 
whether  he  can  read  the  newspaper,  which  with  its  con- 
tents seems  to  him  to  lie  in  the  world  of  mystery.  But 
both  of  them  are  men  of  influence,  both  are  true  Greeks, 
both  believe  in  the  great  Idea,  though  Varvouillya  sees  it 


198  A    WALK  Itf  HELLAS. 

rather  dimly;  both  are  mediators  for  the  communities 
which  they  visit. 

Off  to  our  left  at  some  distance  lay  the  ancient  town  of 
Tanagra,  through  whose  neighborhood  we  cannot  pass 
without  a  delightful  thrill  of  memory.  A  little  community 
it  was  with  its  own  distinctive  character,  as  we  can 
plainly  see  from  ancient  books ;  an  ideal  sense  of  the 
Beautiful  and  of  the  Divine  prevailed  there  in  pleasing 
contrast  to  other  towns.  The  fairest  youth  was  selected 
to  carry  the  sacred  lamb  at  the  festival  of  Hermes ;  the 
shrines  and  temples  were  built  by  them  away  from  the 
profane  part  of  the  town,  away  from  business  places  and 
dwelling  houses.  An  ancient  observer  has  celebrated  the 
women  of  Tanagra,  giving  them  the  palm  over  all  Greek 
women  for  graceful  form  and  harmonious  movement. 

It  seems  to  have  nourished  a  peculiar  phase  of  Art  too, 
springing  from  its  special  character,  and  uttering  the 
same  in  beauty.  Recently  this  Art  has  been  resurrected 
from  its  tombs,  and  the  Tanagra  figurines  in  our  day  have 
carried  the  name  over  the  world,  coupled  with  a  sweet 
grace  and  delicate  form.  Only  some  six  or  seven  years 
ago  did  this  great  resurrection  of  the  old  Boeotian  town 
take  place,  giving  us  many  a  peep  at  its  life  and  manners, 
even  at  its  fashions  and  frivolities.  Eight  thousand 
tombs  are  reported  to  have  given  up  their  shapes,  which, 
like  restless  ghosts,  have  wandered  into  every  corner  of 
the  globe.  At  present,  however,  Tanagra  is  quiet  again, 
and  the  cornfields  are  growing  over  its  sepulchres. 

But  that  which  gives  to  the  town  its  chief  title  to  re- 
membrance, is  the  poetess  whom  it  produced,  beautiful 
Corinna,  she  who  is  said  to  have  won  prizes  over  Pindar 
and  even  to  have  been  the  teacher  of  the  Theban  bard. 
Her  fame  was  the  town's  fairest  jewel,  her  image  was  seen 
in  its  most  prominent  places,  she  was  altogether  its  great- 
est name  during  many  centuries  of  its  existence  —  she,  a 
woman  and  a  poetess,  some  500  years  before  Christ. 
Long  and  nobly  was  she  remembered,  and  if  she  was  able 
to  surpass  the  greatest  lyric  poet  of  all  time,  what  skill 
may  we  not  suppose  to  have  been  hers?  But  an  ancient 
authority  slyly  hints  that  it  was  her  beauty  more  than  her 


FEOM  AULIS   TO   THEBES.  199 

poetry  which  moved  the  judges  of  the  contest,  for  she  was 
also  the  most  beautiful  woman  of  her  period.  An  old 
traveler  more  than  six  hundred  years  after  her  death  still 
beheld  her  monuments  in  her  native  town ;  in  the  gymna- 
-gium  was  her  picture  bound  with  a  triumphal  wreath  in 
honor  of  her  victory  over  Pindar.  Thus  the  little  com- 
munity loyally  kept  before  themselves  their  greatest 
character  —  a  poetess ;  wherever  they  are,  her  image 
must  fall  into  their  eyes.  One  of  those  Tanagra  figurines 
I  take  to  be  Coriuna,  with  lines  from  her  picture  possibly  ; 
nor  can  anybody  help  thinking  of  her,  when  he  notes  the 
type  common  to  all  these  images,  as  if  the  town  in  its 
character '  and  in  its  works  moulded  itself  instinctively 
after  its  supreme  personage.  She  was  its  ideal,  she  will, 
therefore,  be  the  inner  creative  principle  of  all  that  its  peo- 
ple are  or  do. 

But  we  ask  for  her  words  and  her  music,  for  the  utter- 
ance of  hers  which  may  have  come  down  to  us.  Alas ! 
it  is  all  broken  and  disjointed,  very  difficult  to  piece  to- 
gether now.  Time  has  shivered  her  lyre  into  fragments, 
of  which  many  are  lost,  others  remain  incoherent ;  a  few 
indistinct  sounds  of  her  voice  you  may  with  effort  catch 
out  of  the  distance.  Still  she  is  the  prophecy  of  the 
poetess,  whom  we  all  have  to  recognize  in  our  day,  some- 
what as  those  old  citizens  of  Tanagra  did.  A  broken 
murmur  of  song  only  is  left  of  her  strain ;  still  we 
may  think  of  her  in  her  own  image,  "singing  sweet 
love  notes  to  the  white-robed  dames  of  Tanagra,  and 
greatly  delighted  is  my  city  at  the  clear-twittering 
voice." 

Such  was  our  ancient  Tanagra,  with  its  temples  and 
famous  statues ;  above  all,  with  its  poetess,  beautiful  Cor- 
inna,  the  divine  utterance,  both  in  form  and  in  speech,  of 
Tanagra.  But,  threading  up  the  valley  in  company  with 
our  reflections,  we  have  suddenly  arrived  at  quite  a  dif- 
ferent sort  of  habitation,  belonging  to  the  present,  and 
with  another  kind  of  woman  for  its  central  figure.  This 
is  the  Waliachian  village  situated  near  some  springs  which 
give  rise  to  the  small  stream  along  which  we  have  been 
passing.  Some  twenty  or  thirty  families  form  the  com- 


200  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

nmnity  which  is  always  ready  to  take  wing  for  other  parts. 
The  dwellings  are  of  primitive  architecture,  indeed  the 
original  pattern  of  the  house  can  be  studied  here.  Four 
forked  posts  are  driven  into  the  ground,  and  cross-pieces 
are  placed  from  fork  to  fork ;  upon  these  cross-pieces 
sticks  are  laid,  and  the  whole  is  covered  with  twigs  over 
which  is  a  thatching  of  straw  or  leaves.  A  court  or  in- 
closure  made  of  stone  or  brushwood,  is  built  to  each  house; 
this  inclosure  is  large  enough  to  shut  in  the  flock  of  the 
owner.  The  Wallachians,  as  has  been  already  said,  are 
shepherds  ;  at  present  the  men  are  absent  from  the  village, 
guarding  the  herds  in  the  mountains.  Ferocious  dogs 
rush  out  at  us,  but  a  mere  motion  from  Varvouillya,  as  if 
he  were  reaching  for  a  stone,  is  sufficient  to  keep  them  at 
a  distance. 

Here  again  appears  an  ever-recurring  scene  in  the  Greek 
landscape :  the  women  of  the  village  washing  at  the  fount- 
ain. Their  costume  verges  toward  the  undraped ;  there 
is  such  a  display  of  nudities  and  negligences  that  the 
traveler  is  forcibly  reminded  of  the  antique,  particularly 
here  in  Greece.  These  forms  are  the  sculpturesque  dec- 
oration of  every  town  and  fountain.  But  the  Wallachian 
women  are  not  of  classic  mould ;  it  is  easy  to  observe  in 
these  people  a  new  type,  bodies  are  thick  and  broad,  in 
contrast  to  the  tall  thin-waisted  Albanian,  or  to  the  sym- 
metrical Greek ;  limbs,  which  are  freely  exposed,  are  large 
and  powerful,  but  somewhat  stumpy;  the  half-opened 
bosom  reveals  the  mighty  mothers  of  the  strong-armed 
people.  A  little  study,  which  the  honest  traveler  will  not 
fail  to  give  to  this  matter,  reveals  the  development  through 
labor,  and  not  through  training ;  it  is  an  irregular  growth 
according  to  necessity,  not  the  free,  harmonious  unfolding 
of  all  the  members  according  to  some  ideal  divine  pat- 
tern. The  garments  of  the  Wallachian  women  are  parti- 
colored, which  is  a  new  contrast  on  this  soil ;  no  longer 
we  see  the  white  robes  of  the  Greek,  but  a  feeling  for 
color  is  noticed  —  color  without  form,  such  as  is  often 
observed  among  the  more  northern  peasantry  of  Europe. 
The  dresses  are  made  of  colored  patches  and  of  striped 
goods ;  to  the  eye,  now  accustomed  only  to  the  white 


FROM  AULIS   TO   THEBES.  201 

raiment  of  the  country,  this  new  confusion  of  tints  gives 
an  unpleasant  jar. 

The  washers  rub  away  without  paying  much  attention 
to  the  curious  gaze  of  the  passer ;  but  among  them  the 
traveler  will  particularly  notice  a  young  woman  with  long 
heavy  braided  hair  dropping  down  her  back ;  she  is  not 
beautiful  exactly,  but  in  the  lexubei'ant  may-day  of  youth, 
rejoicing  in  the  free  working  of  an  enormous  and  perfectly 
healthy  oi-ganism.  Broadness  is  her  characteristic  — 
broad-faced,  broad-backed,  prodigiously  broad-bottomed, 
still  one  cannot  say  that  she  is  unwieldy.  She  lays  the 
garment  which  she  is  washing  upon  a  stone,  after  lifting 
it  from  the  boiling  cauldron,  then  she  pounds  it  with  an 
immense  bat  or  maul.  What  a  terrific  swing  in  those 
naked  arms,  whose  thews  double  up  into  huge  knots  as 
she  smites  it  with  her  merciless  weapon !  And  those  gar- 
ments, look  at  them,  if  you  would  see  from  what  stains 
purity  may  come ;  they  require  just  such  a  bat  swung  by 
just  such  arms,  for  it  is  nothing  short  of  an  heroic  enter- 
prise to  make  them  clean  —  and-  here  is  the  heroine. 
Thick-bodied,  invincible,  she  swings  the  bat  with  shud- 
dering might ;  the  traveler  will  rejoice  that  he  has  no  con- 
flict with  these  arms  of  the  maiden  of  only  sixteen  sum- 
mers. But  who  would  not  take  pleasure  in  beholding  the 
perfect  health  and  the  perfect  working  of  that  organism ! 
The  child  of  Nature  she  is  truly,  living  a  life  like  the  birds 
of  the  field,  without  pain,  without  struggle.  She  turns  her 
broad  face  up  to  me,  with  a  look  of  shy  wonder,  while  I 
stand  there ;  but  her  glance  drops  with  a  bashful  smile 
when  she  observes  that  the  stranger  is  noticing  her  and 
her  alone  ;  she  seems  to  understand  very  well  that  she 
has  attracted  his  attention,  and,  I  believe,  rejoices  in 
the  thought.  'Throwing  he1!'  braid  back,  yet  never  raising 
her  eyes,  she  swings  again  her  bat,  bringing  it  down  with 
an  unearthly  thump,  much  heavier  than  before,  as  if  to 
inspire  with  new  awe  the  beholder.  But  what  a  luxuriant 
sport  of  her  members !  Exertion  and  strength  are  but 
ease  ;  every  limb  rollicks  with  delight  in  its  own  motion. 
She  is  not  Helen,  she  does  not  possess  grace,  or  form ; 
but  with  some  curse  that  eye  must  be  smitten  which  can 


202  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

find  no  pleasure  in  the  perfect  health  and  massive  exu- 
berance of  her  physical  development. 

The  village  is  now  left  behind,  and  therewith  this  bit  of 
a  journey  is  accomplished.  It  has  the  characteristic 
Greek  scenery :  a  pleasant  valley  through  which  runs  a 
brook,  with  hills  on  each  side ;  on  some  small  eminence 
the  trace  of  a  ruin  is  often  noticed ;  the  patient  donkey  plods 
through  the  sunny  noiseless  landscape,  only  the  Greek 
driver  breaks  the  silence  at  intervals  with  his  customary 
grunt  of  command ;  into  the  whole  view  is  blent  a  mild 
shining  repose,  broken  at  times  to-day  by  fleeting  patches 
of  clouds.  It  is  indeed  a  pleasant  vale  filled  with  many  a 
legend  and  many  a  heroic  form ;  for  this  was  the  route 
from  Thebes  to  the  sea,  from  the  West  to  Aulis.  So  the 
traveler  has  no  difficulty  in  filling  the  solitary  dale  with 
ancient  shapes  among  which  he  moves  with  a  strange 
reality,  and  to  which  he  may  even  speak  ;  nay,  in  his  most 
exalted  moment  he  may  see  a  faun  skipping  in  sunshine 
over  the  hill-side. 

By  this  time,  the  traveler,  looking  back  at  that  classic 
valley,  will  have  run  against  an  embankment,  up  the  sides 
of  which  he  springs  with  curiosity ;  behold,  the  scene 
changes.  The  Great  Road,  the  Megalos  Dromos,  is  now 
under  his  feet,  he  stoops  and  looks  up  and  down  it  won- 
dering whence  it  came.  It  is  the  carriage  road  built  by 
the  Government  between  Chalkis  and  Thebes,  and  ex- 
tends to  Lebedeia  and  Lamia.  With  it  the  modern,  in 
fact  the  western  world,  breaks  into  view  suddenly ;  Ma- 
cadam, of  euphonious  name,  is  now  the  hero,  for  the  road 
is  macadamized  —  and  in  that  word  what  a  diabolic  mixt- 
ure of  Greek  and  barbaric  speech!  Rudely  the  word 
jerks  us  out  of  antiquity  and  plunges  us  into  the  seething 
present ;  yet  in  the  olden  time  the  engineer  was  not  with- 
out fame,  but  was  held  to  be  of  divine  origin,  for  in  the 
ancient  poem  we  read  of  the  road-building  sons  of  Hep- 
haestus, who  constructed  the  way  to  Delphic  Apollo, 
whither  we  too  are  going.  Offspring  of  a  God  then  we 
may  hail  the  hero  Macadam,  at  least  in  Greece ;  even  the 
modern  Great  Road  shall  not  lead  us  out  of  our  antique 
realm,  but  rather  conduct  us  back  into  it  by  a  new 


FEOM  AULI8   TO    THEBES.  203 

route.     We  are   still   in   the  Greek  world,  let   us   then 
pass  on. 

But  here  a  real  sorrow  overtakes  me :  I  have  to  part 
from  my  friend  Varvouiltya  who  has  been  for  so  long  a 
time  my  faithful  companion.  Everything  which  man  may 
expect  from  his  fellowman  in  the  way  of  disinterested 
kindness  he  has  shown  me.  Yet  he  is  a  person  whom  the 
ordinary  traveler  seeing  upon  the  highway  would  tremble 
at  for  fear  lest  he  might  be  a  brigand.  I  myself  re- 
garded him  with  distrust  at  first,  as  you  will  recollect ;  in 
spite  of  his  favors  I  watched  him  closely  all  the  way  from 
Marcopoulo  to  Chalkis  ;  but  my  suspicion  was  unjust,  I 
did  him  a  wrong  which  I  now  am  trying  to  atone  for. 
Under  that  fustanella,  soiled  though  it  be,  there  beats  a 
warm,  hospitable,  honest  heart.  But  we  must  not  separ- 
ate without  a  little  celebration;  a  wineshop  is  at  the 
crossing,  though  the  keeper  is  in  the  fields  at  work ;  we 
call  him  in  and  have  a  final  symposium.  Putting  me  into 
the  Great  Road,  and  pointing  to  the  west,  he  said: 
There,  follow  this  highway  and  in  three  hours  you  will 
be  in  Thebes.  Farewell,  good  Varvouillya,  hardly  shall  I 
meet  thee  again  in  this  journey,  but  I  have  hopes  that  on 
sunny  Olympus  we  shall  yet  banquet  together  in  pres- 
ence of  the  Gods. 

Once  more  alone  after  so  many  days,  I  step  off  rapidly 
toward  the  Theban  plain  through  a  sun-filled  but  bracing 
atmosphere.  The  Great  Road  with  its  modern  face  is  not 
unpleasing ;  the  work  on  it  is  excellent.  It  is  built  upon 
a  raised  bed  with  strong  embankments  supported  by  stone 
through  low  places  ;  the  outer  dressing  of  broken  rubble 
is  pressed  hard  into  the  dirt.  Along  the  road  at  intervals 
are  piles  of  rocks  for  the  purpose  of  repair,  and  1  have 
not  observed  a  spot  in  it  which  is  out  of  order.  Upon 
one  of  these  piles  after  a  brisk  walk  the  traveler  will  sit 
down  to  rest,  will  take  out  his  map  to  identify  the  various 
localities  which  fall  into  his  vision.  For  the  question  is 
always  before  him :  how  did  this  little  tract  of  land  suc- 
ceed in  producing  such  a  race  of  men,  how  did  it 
succeed  in  elevating  itself  into  the  beautiful  symbol 
for  the  whole  human  family?  One  fact  grinds  itself 


204  A    WALK  IX  HELLAS. 

into  the  American  brain  here :  a  big  country  was  not  the 
cause. 

Still  along  the  spurs  of  the  mountains  the  villages  are 
lying  peacefully  and  beautifully  in  the  sun,  somewhat  as 
they  must  have  done  of  old  ;  one  cannot  help  recalling  the 
ancient  in  the  present,  and  think  of  the  stirring  commun- 
ities which  once  lay  upon  these  slopes.  Each  was  roused 
by  the  story  of  Helen,  felt  the  mighty  national  impulse, 
and  sent  its  contingent  to  the  Trojan  war  under  its  strong 
man ;  the  names  of  towns  and  leaders  can  still  be  read  in 
the  famous  muster-roll  in  the  Iliad.  What  a  development 
of  individuality  in  these  small  places !  Each  had  its  auton- 
omous life,  its  special  worship  with  temple  to  the  G-od ; 
each  had  its  hero  and  its  local  legend  connecting  it  with 
divinity.  Mycalessus  could  not  have  been  far  from  this 
crossing ;  it  is  the  spot  where  the  cow  bellowed  which  was 
conducting  Cadmus  to  Thebes  with  that  wonderful  alpha- 
bet of  his,  still  the  chief  instrumentality  of  knowledge. 
So  says  the  fable,  and  the  name  of  the  place,  which  is  de- 
rived from  the  bellow  of  a  cow,  is  cited  in  proof.  Another 
legend  was  anciently  told  here  which  I  like  and  would 
fain  believe  in  its  true  sense :  Demeter,  Goddess  of  the 
harvest,  was  the  presiding  deity  of  Mycalessus ;  at  the 
feet  of  the  statue  of  the  Goddess  the  people  would  place 
offerings  of  flowers  of  fruits  which  ripened  in  autumn, 
but  in  her  presence  they  would  remain  in  bloom  the  whole 
year  round  ;  such  was  the  creative  power  of  her  immedi- 
ate glance  that  the  flowers  never  withered.  A  little  further 
on  was  Harma  where  the  chariot  of  Amphiaraus,  Hero  and 
Seer,  was  swallowed  up  in  the  earth  by  the  special  favor 
of  Zeus :  thence  he  gave  responses  far  over  this  territory. 
Yonder  above  on  Mount  Hypatus  just  before  us  stood  a 
temple  to  Zeus  Hypatus,  Zeus  the  Highest,  nearest  there 
to  his  own  ethereal  clearness ;  shining  with  column  and 
entablature  it  crowned  the  summit  with  its  joyous  wreath 
of  marble.  Pausanias  the  traveler,  a  century  and  a  half 
subsequent  to  the  Christian  Era,  speaks  of  the  ruins  of 
the  towns  here ;  then  already  decay  had  set  in,  the  old 
spirit  had  fled.  But  the  Homeric  Hymn  to  Apollo  is  still 
fresh  with  the  young  life  of  the  localities  along  this  road. 


FROM  AULIS   TO   THEBES.  205 

A  mounted  soldier  comes  along,  for  the  route  is  care- 
fully guarded.  Let  not  the  traveler  leave  any  article 
upon  the  stone-pile  where  he  has  been  sitting ;  the  cavalry- 
man will  pick  it  up  and  carry  it  off  to  the  nearest  station, 
where  it  will  remain  till  the  owner  call  for  it.  An  acci- 
dental wineshop  where  the  thirsty  son  of  Ares  reined  in 
his  steed  for  a  glass  of  recinato  saved  me  a  trip  back  to 
Chalkis  for  my  note-book,  which  I  had  left  for  a  few  min- 
utes on  one  of  these  piles.  The  traveler  will  also  take 
the  opportunity  to  swallow  his  lunch  of  black  bread  and 
cheese,  as  he  sits  there  in  happy  mood  looking  up  at  the 
hills  on  either  side  of  the  way.  Native  pedestrians  he 
will  meet  who  will  stop  and  question  him  ;  carriages  will 
pass  with  tourists  from  Athens  who  have  ventured  to  take 
a  ride  as  far  as  Thebes,  and  who  look  out  of  the  window 
of  the  vehicle  at  him  with  some  anxiety,  lest  he  be  a  brig- 
and ;  the  four  horse  mail  coach  will  go  by,  the  driver  ask- 
ing the  lone  pedestrian  if  he  wishes  to  ride.  No,  he  pre- 
fers to  walk,  though  the  sun  is  getting  a  little  hot,  for  it 
it  already  somewhat  past  noon. 

There  is  no  hurry  then,  let  us  glance  around  at  our 
leisure.  Off  to  the  right  is  a  high  range  of  mountains 
with  its  white  tops  in  a  long  vanishing  row,  ranked  close 
like  the  teeth  of  a  shark's  jaw  ;  it  is  Kithaeron.  Behind 
us  are  the  frosty  summits  of  Euboea ;  especially  the  hoary 
giant  Basilicon  towers  aloft,  still  seeming  to  be  near  at 
hand,  with  top  glistening  in  the  rays  of  the  sun.  But 
before  the  traveler  rises  in  the  distance  a  new  mountain, 
lofty,  snow-capped,  which  he  will  watch  curiously ;  notice 
the  thick  white  cloud  which  is  settling  upon  the  peak  —  so 
thick  that  it  looks  like  a  new  snow-capped  summit  piled 
on  the  mountain  till  it  rise  up  and  mingle  with  the 
Heavens.  Some  invisible  Titan  is  there,  we  may  imagine, 
heaping  Ossa  on  Pelion  in  order  that  he  may  scale 
Oljnipus,  the  home  of  the  Gods.  Thither  we  are  going, 
we  shall  see. 

Passing  up  the  Great  Road  a  short  distance  we  reach  a 
low  ridge  through  which  the  highway  runs  ;  from  its  comb 
we  look  forth  in  front  and  behold  a  new  landscape,  indeed 
a  new  country.  The  Boeotian  plain  breaks  into  view  at 


206  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

once,  hedged  in  on  all  sides  by  mountains ;  this  slight 
ridge  is  the  watershed.  As  we  pass  foward,  we  notice 
that  form  so  often  seen  in  Greece  —  an  amphitheater 
made  by  nature ;  the  hills  retire,  then  sweep  back  towards 
the  road  in  the  shape  of  a  half  moon,  while  the  road 
draws  a  straight  line  from  tip  to  tip  of  the  arc.  So 
amphitheater  succeeds  to  amphitheater ;  Chills  rising  above 
hills  make  the  seats  and  landing-places  ;  a  ghostly  multi- 
tude of  faces  fill  them  from  the  plain  to  the  clouds.  They 
are  looking  at  the  solitary  wayfarer  who  is  walking 
leisurely  before  them,  while  he  occasionally  turns  his  face 
toward  the  still  murmur  of  the  unseen  throngs  on  the  hill- 
sides. 

But  what  a  change !  It  is  a  new  land,  a  new  world. 
The  soil  becomes  rich  and  deep ;  it  varies  in  color  from  a 
light  red  to  a  dark  red,  with  a  loamy  fat-looking  lustre. 
You  would  say,  the  very  ground  was  greasy,  charged  with 
animal  matter.  This  impression  is  intensified  by  the 
enormous  flocks  of  crows  and  buzzards  which  hover  over 
the  plain  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  or  drop  in  long 
streaks  down  to  the  earth.  They  seem  to  be  able  to  gorge 
directly  of  the  soil  which  lies  here  like  an  immense  carcass 
spread  over  the  low  tract  of  the  country.  The  feeling  is 
that  the  whole  land,  rank  in  its  own  decay,  is  about  to 
spring  back  into  vegetable  and  animal  life.  And  such  is 
the  case  ;  vegetables  and  animals  are  everywhere  leaping, 
as  it  were,  into  being  over  the  wide  level  expanse.  Tall 
grasses  now  fill  the  lush  luxuriant  meadows  alternating 
with  fields  of  grain  ;  cotton,  too,  is  one  of  the  products  of 
this  rich  plain.  Numberless  herds  of  cattle,  sheep,  and 
horses  spot  the  distance  with  many  colors  ;  flocks  of  goats 
repose  on  the  more  remote  slopes  in  sunny  patches.  The 
air  is  filled  with  an  incessant  tinkling  of  bells,  far  and 
near,  faint  and  loud,  of  little  sheep-bells  and  of  big  cow- 
bells —  all  in  a  sweet  chime  over  the  meadows  and  hills  ; 
thus  the  landscape  in  addition  to  its  color  is  overflowing 
with  a  mellow  idyllic  music ;  even  the  sunbeams  fall 
around  you  in  subtle  harmony  with  the  tintinnabulation  of 
the  bells. 

Through   such   strains   the   traveler   passes   along  the 


FROM  AULIS   TO    THEBES.  207 

highway ;  the  image  of  Iphigenia  which  has  accompanied 
him  from  Aulis  and  filled  his  eyes  with  unaccustomed  tears, 
now  bids  him  farewell,  she  vanishes  over  the  mountains  to 
her  home.  For  she  is  an  Attic  figure,  the  creation  of 
Attic  tragedy, 'she  stands  for  some  of  the  most  intense 
struggles  of  human  spirit.  But  here  in  this  plain  man 
would  seem  to  have  no  struggle,  no  yearning  which  whelms 
him  into  conflict ;  he  will  become  as  fat  as  the  soil  and 
heavy  as  this  dark  atmosphere  which  fills  the  valley  from 
the  Copaic  swamp.  Yet  let  us  not  be  too  fast  with  our 
conclusions  ;  there  is  stiff  contradiction  here  too,  between 
the  bare  hill  and  the  rich  plain ;  these  will  grapple  in 
strife,  if  nought  else. 

It  is  manifest  that  this  land  will  produce  a  different 
class  of  beings  from  Attica  which  we  have  just  left. 
There  the  soil  is  light  and  thin,  the  air  is  clear  and  genial, 
the  climate  dry  and  exhilarating ;  the  people  will  have  a 
tendency  to  become  winged,  to  soar  and  to  sing.  But 
here  Nature  is  fat  and  heavy,  her  children  will  be  likely 
to  receive  the  inheritance.  The  old  reproach  "Boeotian 
swine"  now  becomes  the  pithy  statement  for  the  clime 
and  the  man.  Still  human  beings  will  not  sink  into  ener- 
vation upon  this  spot,  for  the  climate  is  far  more  severe 
than  that  of  Attica  for  instance,  nor  is  the  plain  so  large 
that  an  enormous  mass  of  humanity  can  settle  here  and 
press  itself  down  by  its  own  weight,  as  in  the  great  river 
valleys  of  the  East.  This  rich  earth  will  have  to  be  stoutly 
defended  against  poor  and  hungry  neighbors  dwelling 
on  yonder  rocky  hills  ;  thus  there  will  have  to  be  strength, 
order,  military  organization,  if  the  inhabitants  keep  their 
lands  and  their  freedom.  Men  upon  this  soil  will  do  two 
things  at  least :  gormandize  and  fight ;  and  such  is  their 
historical  character.  Yet  in  the  background  hover  deep 
struggles  of  the  spiritual  kind ;  fearful  tragedies  will 
break  up  into  Theban  fable,  as  if  intimating  something 
which  lies  first  and  deepest  in  the  instinct  of  the  people. 

Thus  in  Greece  Nature  herself  takes  care  to  individual- 
ize her  territory  and  with  it  her  creatures.  She  cuts  it  up 
and  separates  its  parts  by  chains  of  mountains ;  then  by 
means  of  sea,  swamp  and  range  of  snowy  peaks  she  con- 


208  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

trives  to  give  to  each  portion  a  distinct  character.  This 
Boeotia,  one  often  repeats  to  himself,  is  a  different  world 
from  Attica,  though  distant  but  a  few  hours'  walk ;  yet 
there  is  withal  a  certain  Greek  unity  in  this  very  differ- 
entiation. Copais  lake  that  stretches  yonder,  furnishes 
its  broad  surface  for  moisture,  and  the  climate  becomes 
damp  and  heavy ;  the  whole  plain  too  is  a  swampy  sedi- 
ment of  primeval  ages,  shooting  into  rank  vegetation. 
But  forget  not  the  other  side  to  the  prosaic  one :  this  land 
produced  more  and  a  higher  mythical  lore  than  any  other 
Hellenic  locality,  with  the  possible  exception  of  Argos  ;  it 
produced  on  the  whole  the  most  ideal  man  in  Greek  his- 
tory —  Epamiuondas ;  it  produced  the  lightest-winged, 
highest-soaring  lyric  poet  of  either  ancient  or  modern 
times  —  Pindar.  Of  them  indeed  we  must  hear  again. 

The  sun  is  hot,  though  it  be  winter;  the  pedestrian 
trudging  along  the  hard-rolled  highway  will  become 
thirsty.  Unfinished  wells  here  and  there  at  the  side  of 
the  road  indicate  that  others  before  him  have  felt  the 
same  need  of  a  fresh  draught,  which,  he  hopes,  will  be 
ready  for  those  who  are  to  come  after  him ;  but  the 
most  philanthropic  hope  will  not  give  him  a  drink  of 
water.  The  amphitheaters  furnish  good  company,  for 
their  stony  seats  are  filled  to  the  very  skies  with  a 
multitude  of  spirits,  looking  at  Time's  spectacle.  A 
high  ridge  springs  up  suddenly  in  front  and  compels  the 
road  to  turn  aside  —  a  jagged  volcanic  product  breaking 
upward  in  a  thousand  quivering  struggles,  and  each  quiver 
chilled  forever  into  stone.  The  eager  traveler  will  leave 
the  highway  and  attempt  to  explore,  but  he  has  to  leap 
from  jag  to  jag,  and  his  peaceful  walk  is  thrown  into  con- 
vulsions like  the  ridge,  altogether  incompatible  with  classic 
repose.  He  soon  abandons  the  frenzied  rocks  and  returns 
to  the  road  with  joyful  glances,  for,  if  I  mistake  not,  he 
begins  to  see  something  of  Thebes  in  the  distance  lying 
on  a  hill.  But  further  yet,  far  beyond  Thebes,  is  that 
lofty  snow-capped  mountain  which  has  remained  in  our 
vision  ever  since  we  crossed  the  Boeotian  watershed ;  still 
the  -solid  white  cloud  rests  on  the  summit,  reaching  up 
into  the  heavens ;  no  eye  can  tell  where  mountain  ends 


FEOM  AULIS   TO    THEBES.  209 

and  cloud  begins,  so  much  alike  do  they  seem.  Truly 
the  earth  seems  to  be  rising  there,  flying  upward  at  the 
stars  with  white  wings  —  what  can  be  the  name  of  the 
mount?  I  suspect  it.  still  I  dare  not  tell  it  now. 

But  this  thirst  is  a  little  troublesome  and  begins  to 
touch  the  Greek  mood.  Good  luck !  —  here  is  a  laborer, 
and  he  has  a  skin  filled  with  fresh  water  which  he  freely 
offers  to  the  wayfarer.  A  great,  red-faced,  fat  man, 
quite  distinct  from  the  common  run  of  people  in  Greece, 
he  seems  to  partake  of  the  nature  of  the  soil  which  he  is 
tilling ;  sweaty  and  puffiug,  with  enormous  bulk  he  wields 
the  grubbing  hoe  ;  a  very  type  of  Boeotia,  you  will  think, 
being  reminded  again  of  the  ancient  proverb  above  cited, 
though  the  thought  be  in  the  present  case  ungenerous. 
But  let  us  not  delay,  with  Thebes  getting  nearer. 

At  the  side  of  the  road  is  an  artificial  mound  which  has 
been  recently  excavated ;  excellent  masonry  is  brought  to 
view,  with  stone  carefully  cut ;  some  tomb  or  trophy  is 
the  read}'  conjecture,  and  anciently  it  must  have  spoken 
of  the  Great  Deed  or  of  the  Great  Man  to  the  traveler  as 
he  approached  the  city,  filling  his  heart  with  the  desire  of 
imitation,  or  perchance  with  worship.  Thus  along  with 
the  view  of  Thebes  he  would  get  the  view  of  one  of  its 
Heroes.  Not  far  from  it  is  a  very  different  object  though 
intended  for  worship  also  —  a  Christian  shrine  ;  in  a  stone 
frame  is  set  a  rude  picture  of  the  Virgin  and  Child,  before 
which  the  Greek  of  to-day  crosses  himself  and  repeats  a 
prayer.  I  too  stop  and  look  at  it  thoughtfully ;  it  is  well 
enough  just  upon  this  spot  to  remind  the  weary  pedes- 
trian that  there  is  a  providence  over  him,  that  he  must  al- 
so have  faith  —  for  is  not  his  whole  journey  based  upon  the 
belief  that  in  >the  next  village  provision  has  been  made  for 
him,  of  which  he  now  knows  nothing?  Otherwise  I  would 
not  go  to  Thebes  yonder,  Thebes  would  be  death  —  noth- 
ingness ;  as  it  is,  not  only  will  my  body  find  food  and 
shelter  there,  but  I  feel  certain  of  receiving  some  spiritual 
nourishment. 

But  it  is  strange  how  unnatural  that  Virgin  appeal's 
upon  Greek  soil ;  she  seems  not  yet  at  home  after  this 
long,  long  millennial  residence.  Somehow  or  other  she 

14 


210  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

still  looks  like  a  foreigner ;  nay,  she  has  almost  a  destruc- 
tive appearance  here,  kindly  and  good  though  she  be  else- 
where ;  the  Greek  when  he  begins  to  worship  her,  sinks 
to  little  or  nothing  in  comparison  to  what  he  once  was 
with  other  divinities -in  his  heart;  if  she  be  not  some 
avenging  deity,  destroying  her  own  worshipers,  at  least 
she  has  been  unable  to  lift  them  up  into  their  ancient 
worth.  The  mule-driver  just  in  advance  of  us  who  leaps 
down  from  his  seat  and  goes  through  his  devotions  before 
her  image,  is  no  unfair  sample  of  her  products  ;  he  repre- 
sents that  to  which  she  has  reduced  the  Greek  from  the 
ancient  breed  of  men  who  were  once  born  upon  this  soil. 
Or  turn  about  the  statement,  if  you  please,  and  say:  the 
Greek  having  lost  his  freedom,  his  faith,  and  himself,  re- 
ceived a  new  divinity  and  sank  into  this  new  worship. 
Both  propositions  are,  however,  in  their  essence  the  same. 

Here  comes  another  specimen  of  a  different  kind  ;  I 
take  him  to  be  a  Bo3otian  country  gentleman.  Mounted 
on  a  fine  steed  which  steps  proudly  along  the  highway 
he  approaches,  in  big  cavalier  boots,  with  bright  scarlet 
fez  lying  slouched  upon  the  top  of  his  head,  while  a  long 
very  white  overcoat  shaggy  with  large  woolly  flocks 
gives  him  the  appearance  of  a  white  bear — fat,  haughty, 
carnivorous ;  barbaric  ornaments  of  various  kinds  are 
scattered  over  his  horse  and  his  person.  So  too  the  old 
Theban  was  reproached  with  haughtiness  as  well  as  with 
gluttony  ;  one  will  fancy  he  sees  some  of  these  traits  still 
cleaving  to  the  soil. 

After  some  minutes  another  figure  appears  in  the  road, 
taking  a  walk  out  of  Thebes  which  is  now  not  far  off.  It 
is  a  Papas  or  priest  strolling  at  his  leisure  outside  of  the 
town  gates  ;  his  long  black  gown  seems  to  move  through 
the  clear  air  almost  without  showing  any  bend  in  his 
knees  as  he  steps ;  a  man  of  quiet  contemplation,  one 
would  think  judging  by  his  face.  I  address  him,  and  he 
responds  in  a  friendly  sweet  voice  ;  he  points  out  to  me 
the  various  places  seen  in  the  landscape  and  tells  their 
names :  in  this  direction  is  Kokla,  ancient  Plataea,  there 
is  Orchomenus,  now  Scripu.  But  what  mountain  is  that 
yonder,  with  the  clouds  and  sunbeams  piled  upon  its 


FROM  AULIS   TO    THEBES.  211 

summit  to  the  very  skies?  Parnassus,  he  replied,  and 
under  it  is  Delphi.  He  continued  his  walk,  while  I  step- 
ped quickly  forward  looking  at  Parnassus.  No  wonder 
that  the  mountain  with  its  broad-expanded,  gold- bor- 
dered cloud-wings  seeks  to  lift  itself  into  ethereal  spaces, 
being  upheld  by  a  Delphic  foundation  —  Poesy  sustained 
by  Prophecy.  It  is  now  clear  as  daylight  that  the  des- 
tination of  this  journey  is  not  Thebes ;  yonder  is  the 
beacon  held  aloft  in  the  heavens. 

But  we  must  not  fly  off  yet,  we  are  not  yet  even  in 
Thebes,  though  the  suburbs  begin  to  appear.  ^Ye  shall 
enter  by  the  Proetid  Gate,  from  the  East ;  can  we  call  up 
the  scene  as  it  looked  to  the  eye  of  the  ancient  traveler 
approaching  the  city  in  this  direction  ?  Along  the  street 
over  which  we  are  now  passing  were  situated  in  antiquity 
the  tombs  and  monuments  of  Heroes  and  Great  Men. 
Down  the  road  they  stretched  for  two  miles  ;  the  stranger 
was  reminded,  as  he  approached  the  city,  of  its  illustrious 
characters,  both  historical  and  legendary.  He  could  see 
in  the  statue,  in  the  inscription,  in  the  monument  what 
men  Thebes  had  produced,  and  whom  she  still  held  in  re- 
membrance. Here  was  her  fable,  her  history,  her  own 
deepest  character,  spread  out  before  the  eyes  of  the 
stranger,  who  could  read  them  on  entering  her  walls. 
The  best  introduction  to  her  life  lay  inscribed  here  ;  still 
fragments  of  it  we  may  read  to-day,  using  the  vision  of 
the  ancient  tourist. 

For  in  the  sun  of  the  quiet  afternoon  the  marble  monu- 
ments begin  to  rise  and  glisten ;  we  may  pass  through 
them  built  on  either  hand,  and  scan  them  thoughtfully. 
First  was  the  tomb  of  the  seer,  old  Tiresias,  more  than 
fifteen  stades  from  the  city.  The  great  prophet  must 
stand  at  the  very  opening,  significantly  hinting  what  is  to 
be ;  all  that  comes  after  is  really  his  prophecy.  For  he 
knew  and  foretold  what  lay  in  the  germ  of  Thebes  and 
of  her  Heroes  ;  advance  now  and  see  it  unfolded  in  the 
monuments  which  follow,  and  in  the  city  itself.  But  we 
have  already  left  the  place  of  Tiresias  rapidly  behind, 
and  we  come  to  another  monument  inscribed  Tomb  of 
Hector.  What  does  this  mean?  By  the  oracle  the  chil- 


212  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

dren  of  Cadmus  are  commanded  to  reverence  the  Asiatic 
hero  after  transferring  his  bones  from  Asia.  No  wonder 
that  Thebes  did  not  furnish  any  contingent  for  the  Tro- 
jan war.  It  is  an  indication  of  the  foreign  element  which 
lies  both  in  Theban  legend  and  in  Theban  history ;  she 
has  Asiatic  preferences  which  bring  her  into  fierce  con- 
flict with  the  other  Greeks;  she  is  born  to  be  a  city  of 
struggle.  On  the  whole  this  is  the  most  significant  fact 
pertaining  to  Thebes :  she  worshiped  the  Hero  of  Asia, 
the  enemy  of  the  Greek  Hero  Achilles  ;  manifestly  she  is 
in  shrill  dissonance  with  the  rest  of  the  Greek  world. 

Here  too  is  another  and  even  deeper  sign  of  that  dis- 
sonance :  Tomb  of  Melanippus.  This  is  the  name  of  a 
Theban  Hero  who  fell  during  the  siege  of  his  city  by  the 
Argives,  after  he  had  slain  the  great  Argive  chieftain 
Tydeus,  whose  monument  of  rude  stones  is  also  here  near 
by.  Thus  the  two  enemies  still  glare  on  each  other  from 
their  tombs,  as  they  did  in  life,  representing  the  Theban 
conflict  with  Greece ;  the  two  cities  with  their  Heroes 
stand  for  opposite  tendencies  of  the  Greek  world,  and 
Argos  as  the  leading  Hellenic  power  of  that  age  seeks  to 
bring  harmony  out  of  this  Thebau  discord  with  Hellen- 
ism, which  she  succeeds  in  at  last  by  wiping  Thebes  out 
of  existence.  But  it  is,  after  all,  the  strife  of  two  Greek 
states,  the  strife  of  brothers —  and  here  they  are, 
Eteocles  and  Polynices,  the  two  brothers  who  perish, 
each  by  the  other's  hand.  Thus  the  Argives  were  de- 
stroyed once,  and  Thebes  was  destroyed  once  in  that 
bitter  conflict.  The  brothers  have  a  common  altar  here 
upon  which  offerings  are  laid  ;  but  behold  the  fire  of  the 
sacrifice,  it  separates  into  two  hostile  tongues  of  flame 
which  will  not  mingle.  Brothers  they  are  and  must  re- 
main together,  though  without  hope  of  reconciliation, 
enemies  still  in  the  grave.  Thus  Theban  struggle  is 
pushed  to  its  last  intensity  in  the  direst  domestic  tragedy  ; 
from  the  first  Asiatic  dissonance,  through  Greek  civil  war 
it  has  passed  to  fratricide.  Then  still  further,  to  unwit- 
ting parricide,  for  we  have  now  reached  the  fountain  of 
Oedipus,  parent  of  those  two  brothers ;  in  its  waters  he 
washed  off  the  bloodstains  of  his  own  father  after  mur- 


THEBES  AND  PLAT^EA.  213 

dering  him ;  still  the  stream  runs  red,  to  the  sympathetic 
eye. 

But  we  have  already  crossed  the  Ismenian  stream, now 
quite  dry  at  this  point,  and  we  have  arrived  at  the  Proetid 
Gate.  Such  are  the  monuments  which  the  traveler 
anciently  beheld  here  in  reality,  but  now  we  must  behold 
them  in  image,  unfolding  gradually  a  deep  tragic  scission 
to  the  very  heart  of  the  city,  and  ending  in  bloody  catas- 
trophe. This  is  our  introduction  to  Thebes  as  we  pass  up 
the  Chalkidian  road  —  a  true  introduction  to  her  legend, 
to  her  history,  to  her  character,  written  with  her  own 
hand  and  placed  here  before  the  eyes  of  all  who  are  able 
to  read  her  monuments.  It  is  an  honest  writing,  I  should 
say,  instinctively  revealing  to  the  traveler  what  she  is 
within,  what  she  must  be  in  the  future,  for  these  are  the 
records  of  her  innermost  being.  Unconscious  is  the  ex- 
pi'ession  of  her  life  here,  and  therefore  sincere ;  like  a 
prologue  to  some  fearful  tragedy  it  has  been  uttered  in 
our  presence,  and  with  premonitions  upon  us  we  enter  the 
gate  of  the  city. 


X.   THEBES  AND  PL AT^E A. 

Slowly  the  pedestrian  winds  up  the  hill  into  Thebes. 
After  he  has  passed  through  a  small  modern  suburb  and 
entered  the  town  on  the  declivity,  he  soon  reaches  the 
central  place  of  business,  which  is  indicated  by  wagons 
loaded  with  cotton,  by  a  stage-coach  and  by  numerous 
wineshops.  It  is  not  yet  evening,  there  is  time  for  a  pre- 
liminary saunter  through  the  town.  Its  whole  activity  is 
confined  to  one  broad  street,  along  which  the  shops  and 
stores  are  ranged  side  by  side  ;  most  of  the  houses  have 
but  one  story  with  low  roofs  projecting  in  front  over  the 
unpaved  sidewalk.  The  cobbler  sits  in  the  open  air,  with 
old  shoes  lying  around  him  in  winrows ;  the  blacksmith, 
the  tinner,  the  gunsmith  are  hammering  away  in  an  anvil 
chorus  of  rattling  iron ;  village  industries  appear  to  be 


214  A    WALK  IK  HELLAS. 

thriving.  The  dwellings  may  be  pronounced  on  the  whole 
substantial ;  a  few  may  even  lay  claim  to  some  elegance, 
if  the  standard  be  not  placed  too  high. 

Still  the  town  makes  the  impression  of  undue  eating  and 
drinking,  which  was  the  reproach  cast  upon  it  in  antiquity. 
The  fertile  plain  gathers  and  concentrates  itself  upon  this 
hill  where  it  finds  its  last  expression  in  the  character  of 
man.  It  produces  not  the  refined  epicureanism  of  the 
voluptuary  but  the  gross  pleasures  of  the  gormandizer. 
The  wineshops  are  all  open  and  ablaze  with  activity ;  in  a 
public  garden  one  can  see  a  throng  of  people  sitting  and 
sipping  their  recinato  with  loud  buzz  of  talk  and  hot 
political  discussion,  for  the  election  of  Demarch  or 
Mayor  is  approaching.  On  the  street  there  is  in  general 
a  well-fed  appearance  of  humanity,  verging  toward  obe- 
sity in  those  who  have  battened  on  this  moor.  Kitchens 
abound  just  on  the  sidewalk;  cookery  instead  of  taking 
place  in  some  obscure  corner  to  the  rear  of  the  house,  hid- 
ing itself  out  of  sight  for  shame,  shows  itself,  brazen-faced, 
to  the  very  eyes  of  the  customer,  and  the  aroma  of  his 
dinner  first  ascends  to  his  nostrils.  Pots  are  arranged, 
bubbling  and  steaming,  under  charcoal  fires  in  the  front 
window  of  the  public  eating-houses ;  stewed  meat  and 
vegetables  are  handed  out  to  the  passer  on  the  sidewalk, 
or  he  may  take  a  seat  within  at  a  rude  table.  These  cus- 
toms are  not  peculiar  to  Thebes,  we  saw  them  at  Chalkis 
and  shall  see  them  everywhere  on  Greek  soil ;  but  they 
seem  intensified  here.  Perhaps  I  observe  only  the  old  in 
the  new ;  still  that  is  just  the  object  of  my  trip  and  yours. 
In  accordance  with  our  duty  as  honest  travelers  let  us 
fall  in  with  the  customs  of  the  place  and  order  a  stew  of 
lamb  and  potatoes. 

A  short  walk  let  us  then  take  up  the  street  to  the  walls, 
whence  we  can  overlook  the  country.  The  wonderful  sit- 
uation is  at  once  revealed ;  this  is  just  the  spot  for  the 
city.  The  hill  rises  up  from  the  plain,  and  is  surrounded 
by  a  deep  natural  trench  on  all  sides  except  where  at  one 
narrow  interval  it  slopes  off  gradually  into  the  valley,  as 
if  to  stretch  out  there  a  friendly  hand.  Imagine  a  huge 
saucer  with  a  line  of  hills  for  its  rim ;  such  is  the  total 


THEBES   AND    PLATJEA.  215 

landscape  before  us.  Then  imagine  a  protuberance  in  the 
bottom  of  the  saucer  somewhat  to  one  side ;  upon  this 
protuberance  almost  as  high  as  the  surrounding  rim  of 
hills  Thebes  is  built.  It  is  an  acropolis  raised  by  Nature, 
and  fitted  for  commanding  the  plain  far  and  wide  ;  the 
people  who  dwell  here  must  be  the  rulers  of  those  who 
dwell  below  them  and  around  them,  if  they  be  true  to 
their  situation.  The  headship  of  Thebes  is  written  upon 
this  natural  elevation,  one  can  still  read  the  decree  in- 
effaceable by  time.  Therefore  this  is  the  holy  hill,  the 
Cadmeia,  the  special  gift  of  the  God  who  is  here  wor- 
shiped by  his  people  in  his  own  temple  built  upon  its 
summit.  For  did  not  ancient  Cadmus,  coming  from 
abroad,  follow  the  indication  of  the  Delphic  oracle  and 
settle  here  where  the  sacred  cow  lay  down  ?  It  is  indeed 
a  devoted  spot,  the  strength  and  protection  of  the  peo- 
ple, who  with  sacrifice  will  long  appreciate  the  gift.  Into 
the  plain  it  slopes  by  one  narrow  passage,  easy  to  descend, 
hard  to  ascend  against  resistance.  Such  is  the  donation 
of  divinity,  one  can  still  connect  his  presence  with  the  hill. 

Another  blessing  has  the  God  granted  to  this  favored 
situation:  on  each  side  of  the  hill  run  two  streams  of 
water  from  large  pure  fountains.  So  our  city  will  be 
called  by  the  poets  two-rivered ;  Dirke  and  Ismenus  are 
the  names.  Just  now  we  are  standing  on  the  site  of  the 
old  temple  to  the  Ismeuian  Apollo,  titled  from  the  stream 
flowing  at  his  feet ;  deservedly  he  will  be  regarded  as  the 
chief  deity  of  the  city  on  account  of  his  two  presents,  the 
hill  and  the  streams ;  they  indeed  make  up  its  special 
characteristic.  These  noble  benefactions  came  from  the 
God  to  his  people ;  if  not  from  him,  whence  did  they 
come  ?  So  thinks  the  pious  Theban ;  so  we  may  think 
with  him,  forgetting  our  geology,  which,  after  all,  only 
removes  the  difficulty  one  or  two  steps  further  back. 

But  the  long  shadows  over  the  Dirkean  runnels  admon- 
ish us  that  we  are  not  in  that  antique  world  where  the  sun 
is  always  shining ;  turn  about  then,  and  go  back  to  mod- 
ern Thebes.  I  have  noticed  one  man  persistently  follow- 
ing me  through  the  streets,  and  disturbing  my  reveries. 
Twice  already  I  have  shaken  him  off,  but  the  third  time 


216  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

I  send  him  away  with  reproaches,  even  with  a  firmer  grasp 
of  my  staff.  He  now  leaves  me  to  myself ;  but  night  has 
already  drawn  a  sombre  curtain  over  the  plain,  and  dis- 
tant Parnassus,  otherwise  so  white  and  shining,  has  been 
darkened  into  a  Creole  beauty.  Alas !  I  must  now  take 
leave  of  the  ancient  company  and  seek  shelter  and  food, 
for  I  am  not  yet  ready  ttf  dissolve  wholly  my  connection 
with  the  present.  I  go  to  a  kind  of  hostelry  and  look  in  ; 
there  is  the  landlord,  the  very  man  whom  I  had  so  un- 
'  ceremoniously  driven  off.  I  feel  ashamed  to  ask  him  now 
for  what  he  previously  had  been  trying  to  thrust  upon 
me  ;  a  little  touch  of  Nemesis  it  is  for  my  gruff  ness.  But 
I  shall  not  stay  there,  I  walk  up  and  down  seeking  another 
inn  ;  this  is  the  only  one  in  town,  I  am  told  everywhere. 
So  I  have  to  return,  putting  on  my  most  friendly  look, 
and  not  forgetting  to  rattle  some  silver  drachmas  conven- 
iently in  my  hand.  My  amiability  was  irresistible,  or 
perchance  my  drachmas,  falling  into  his  Greek  eye.  I 
apologized  gently ;  I  told  him  that  I  thought  he  was  so 
and  so,  whereas  he  was  not,  but  so  and  so — that  is,  a 
gentleman ;  let  the  end  be  told  at  once,  supper  and  lodg- 
ing. But  such  is  the  first  penalty  which  Nemesis  lays 
upon  the  traveler  for  being  ill-tempered  in  Greece ;  be- 
ware of  the  second,  it  may  be  more  severe. 

Thereupon  I  retire  in  good  humor,  nor  did  I  forget  to 
look  back  at  this  curious  trip,  as  I  lay  upon  my  couch ; 
more  than  a  week,  nine  days  to-morrow  morning,  have  I 
been  on  the  way  from  Athens.  A  fragment  of  life  not  un- 
eventful to  me,  full  of  real  sights  and  classic  visions, 
making  many  shapes  hitherto  dim  and  djreamy  actual  as 
life,  yet  opening  many  other  glimpses  into  things  uncer- 
tain ;  but  whatever  else  may  be  said  of  it,  a  happy  frag- 
ment it  has  been,  and  thus  a  clear  gain  wrenched  from 
the  clutches  of  old  Time.  Yet  the  reverse  side  of  the 
picture  must  be  given :  I  did  not  think,  and  I  can  now 
scarcely  believe  that  such  a  short  period  would  produce 
ten  long  talks  like  these  to  which  you  have  been  listening ; 
yes,  ten,  more  than  one  for  each  day.  It  is  startling,  I 
am  frightened  at  my  own  possibilities.  What  if  every 
day  of  my  life  should  result  in  a  chapter  such  as  this ! 


THEBES   AND   PLAT^EA.  217 

What  a  Niagara  of  speech  would  pour  out  of  me  !  Nay, 
further,  what  if  every  person  would  produce  an  amount 
equal  to  mine  every  day,  as  is  his  perfect  right !  Think 
of  every  human  being  turned  to  a  dark  cataract  of  printed 
books  with  endless  deafening  roar !  Such  is  to  be,  I  pre- 
dict, the  second  deluge  overwhelming  the  world  for  its 
sins ;  many  are  now  the  signs  thereof  and  this  is  one. 
My  guilty  participation  I  cannot  deny  to  you,  but  I  may 
allege  a  single  extenuating  circumstance  ;  not  with  these 
nine  days  only  have  I  seen,  but  with  all  my  days  lying 
back  of  them  and  preparing  for  them ;  so  too  it  is  not  the 
nin'e  days  alone  which  are  speaking  now,  but  my  whole 
life  finding  utterance  in  them  at  this  moment. 

But  another  more  harmonious  note  will  soon  possess  the 
drowsy  ear  in  passing  to  dreamland ;  faint  snatches  of 
music  will  already  have  hummed  through  the  head  like  a 
distant  strain,  and  then  haA'e  died  away  at  any  attempt  to 
catch  them  distinctly.  Aeolian  fragments  you  will  think 
them  coming  down  from  ancient  Pindar  who  once  sang 
here ;  still  they  seem  to  be  wandering  through  the  air  on 
which  they  were  once  hymned.  Fair  choruses  begin  to 
sport  round  the  sacred  hill  of  Thebes,  to  whose  rhythm 
all  her  legend  and  history  fall  into  soft  attunement.  To 
some  melodious  line  and  more  melodious  image  of  the 
bard  you  will  pass  into  slumber,  when  you  will  listen  all 
night  to  the  songs  of  the  festival  and  behold  the  graceful 
youths  stepping  lightly  in  the  dance.  Early  by  a  dim 
echo  you  will  be  roused  —  by  a  dim  echo  of  voices  which 
are  singing  of  the  morning  sun  as  it  rises  over  the 
Dirkeian  streams.  Get  up  quickly ;  that  too  we  must 
witness  in  all  its  effulgence  casting  its  rays  upon  the 
bosom  of  the  musical  Nymph.  Therefore  this  morning 
let  us  hasten  to  the  Northern  side  of  the  city  where  it  is 
married  to  the  plain,  and  there  descend.  We  shall  pass 
a  high  tower  supposed  to  be  Byzantine,  we  shall  go  by  the 
public  threshing  floor,  and  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  reach 
fair-flowing  Dirke,  holy  water. 

But  as  we  move  through  this  locality  led  by  our  ancient 
guide  Pausanias,  another  form  springs  up,  a  woman,  with 
heroic  features,  but  with  a  fiercely  discordant  note  in  her 


218  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

soul.  Here  is  then  the  Syrma  or  Place  of  the  Dragging, 
for  it  was  here  that  Antigone  dragged  her  dead  brother  to 
the  funeral  pile  in  defiance  of  the  command  of  the  King. 
It  is  wonderful  how  much  more  real  the  story  of  Antigone 
is  than  any  historical  event  which  has  happened  upon  this 
spot,  and  how  much  more  vivid  the  heroic  woman  stands 
out  than  any  historic  personage.  Her  conflict  is  of  to-day 
and  will  remain  forever  an  expression  for  man  of  what  is 
eternal  within  him ;  thus  must  true  poetry  be  always 
above  history  tied  down  to  Time. 

This,  then,  was  in  part  the  scene  of  that  famous 
Oedipus  legend  —  Oedipus  who  slew  his  father  and  mar- 
ried his  mother,  unwittingly.  Such  was  his  profound 
ignorance  that  he  knew  not  father  or  mother;  yet  just 
he  was  the  surpassing  wise  man  of  the  Thebans,  the  man 
who  had  guessed  the  Sphinx  riddle,  and  to  whom  the 
mystery  of  Egypt  and  of  the  Orient  was  no  longer  a 
mystery.  But  another  and  deeper  riddle  comes  up  to 
him  for  solution,  far  deeper  than  the  Egyptian  one,  and 
threatening  to  destroy  not  only  him  but  the  whole  Greek 
world.  It  is  one  phase  of  the  infinite  riddle  between  the 
subjective  and  the  objective,  as  the  philosophers  speak ; 
the  bottomless  chasm  between  what  is  the  I  am  and  what 
the' world  is  yawns  for  Oedipus,  and  he  falls  in,  not  to  be 
ivscued  by  any  hand  of  that  age.  Man  violates  the 
sacred  prescriptions  of  his  own  time  and  indeed  of  his 
own  nature,  yet  he  does  so  unknowingly ;  alas,  what  is  to 
be  done  with  him,  what  is  he  to  do  with  himself?  It  is 
veritably  a  riddle,  or  better,  it  is  a  conflict  between  the 
profoundest  spiritual  principles,  between  the  inner  and 
outer  Reason,  between  the  law  of  the  man  and  the  law  of 
the  institution.  In  that  disruption  the  human  being  is 
torn  to  pieces,  becomes  in  the  deepest  sense  a  tragic 
character.  Oedipus  does  the  wrong,  unwittingly  it  is 
true ;  nevertheless  the  wrong  exists  in  the  world,  the 
great  violation  remains  the  same,  he  must  be  punished  — 
must  punish  himself.  Yet  he  was  innocent  as  the  inner 
man,  he  had  no  intent  corresponding  to  the  deed.  But 
he,  the  wise  man,  the  guesser  of  riddles,  ought  not  to  be 
entrapped  in  a  riddle.  Yet  he  was  entrapped  and  could 


THEBES   AND    PLAT^EA.  219 

not  help  himself  —  and  so  on  to  infinity  must  the  wrench- 
ing contradiction  be  continued  at  Thebes  ;  thus  the  poor 
old  man,  with  soul  torn  to  very  tatters,  has  to  flee,  he 
leaves  his  own  city  and  passes  down  the  road  toward 
Athens,  led  by  his  daughter,  having  plucked  out  his 
physical  eye  when  he  could  not  see  with  his  spiritual  eye. 
Abandoning  Thebes  full  of  unreconcilable  struggle  he 
will  find  at  Athens  atonement  for  his  guilt  and  a  solution 
for  his  new  riddle  —  whereof  nothing  at  present. 

Thus  has  the  Athenian  poet  shown  the  Theban  Oedipus, 
and  has  touched  a  theme  which  must  come  home  to  us  all. 
This  existence  of  ours  lies  between  two  riddles,  the  one 
of  which  we  may  guess,  the  other  not.  Every  human 
being  now  treading  the  earth,  however  great,  however 
little  he  may  be,  hovers  between  the  known  and  the  un- 
known like  Oedipus.  With  that  unknown  he  grapples  for 
dear  life,  conquers  much  of  it  perhaps ;  but  wrestling 
still  with  it,  he  is  at  last  hurled  into  his  grave.  With  the 
Greek  poet  some  of  us  may  assert  that  reconciliation  is  to 
be  found  here  before  death,  but  the  most  of  our  race 
seem  to  expect  it  only  after  death  in  a  soul-renovating 
paradise. 

A  daughter,  a  truly  spiritual  daughter  of  Oedipus  is 
Antigone  who  also  must  be  located  upon  this  spot  where 
we  are  standing.  One  problem  she  too  has  solved — it  is 
the  duty  of  performing  the  last  funeral  rites  for  her  out- 
cast brother.  Frantic  she  comes,  with  maniacal  hair 
streaming  in  the  wind,  frenzied  with  resolution ;  upon 
this  spot  she  drags  the  corpse  of  her  brother,  called  ever 
afterwards  the  Syrma,  or  the  Place  of  the  Dragging. 
Then  upon  the  funeral  pile  she  places  her  dead  brother, 
and  performs  the  sacred  ceremony ;  a  sisterly  deed  full  of 
the  deepest  devotion  and  fidelity,  and  to  the  heroine  the 
whole  world  shouts  approbation.  This  problem  then  she 
has  solved  to  her  and  our  satisfaction  ;  but  let  us  see  —  what 
is  this  other  mighty  contention  springing  into  view  sud- 
denly ?  A  new  conflict  arises,  in  the  very  act  of  duty  she 
has  violated  duty  and  is  destroyed ;  a  power  rushes  in  and 
sweeps  her  off,  it  is  the  authority  which  she  has  assailed. 
So  the  one  riddle  she  solves,  the  other  solves  her,  not  with- 


220  A    WALK  7.V  HELLAS. 

out  tears  and  perhaps  execrations  from  us;  still  the  power 
makes  away  with  her,  and  most  effectually  too.  Thus 
the  daughter  of  Oedipus  has  her  soluble  and  insoluble 
riddle  ;  she  who  can  master  one  problem  to  the  admiration 
of  all  ages,  is  ground  to  death  by  the  second  problem. 

Such  is  the  Theban  image  in  legend,  full  of  riddling 
discord ;  nor  must  we  forget  the  two  sieges  of  Thebes  in 
legendary  times ;  in  reality,  however,  two  phases  of  one 
siege,  which  ends  in  the  capture  of  the  city.  Let  us 
glance  at  the  Theban  image  also  therein  reflected,  and  try 
to  reach  its  true  purport.  It  has  already  been  stated  that 
Thebes  and  the  Cadmeia  sprang  from  a  foreign  element, 
and  that  they  seem  never  to  have  lost  a  foreign  sympathy. 
This  hostile  influence  in  the  heart  of  Greece  must  be  over- 
come in  order  to  unify  the  Hellenic  people  within ;  thus 
they  will  be  ready  for  the  great  external  conflict  with 
Troy,  which,  it  is  clear,  is  soon  to  be.  The  siege  of 
Thebes,  then,  is  an  inner  adumbration  of  the  siege  of 
Troy,  or  perchance  a  preparation  for  the  same,  since 
Troy  lay  outside  of  Greece  which  has  first  to  purge  itself 
of  its  own  Asiatic  element  before  going  to  Asia  itself. 
Some  such  hint  lies  in  the  legend  for  the  true  believer, 
and  such  is  the  relation  between  the  two  famous  sieges, 
the  Theban  and  the  Trojan,  the  internal  one  and  the  ex- 
ternal one ;  both,  too,  were  essentially  conflicts  with  the 
Orient.  Also  the  Argives  who  were  among  the  chief 
leaders  in  the  Trojan  Expedition  were  those  who  subjected 
the  -foreign  influence  at  Thebes ;  or,  to  state  the  matter 
otherwise,  they  put  down  the  contradiction,  the  sharp 
dissonance  with  the  Greek  world  in  the  latter  city.  This 
dissonance  during  the  siege  of  Thebes  culminates  in  the 
combat  between  Eteocles  and  Polynices,  brother  against 
brother,  both  fateful  sons  of  Oedipus,  victor  and  victim 
of  the  riddle.  But  in  their  case  the  riddle  annihilates 
itself,  the  conflict  ends  in  the  mutual  destruction  of  the 
colliding  sides.  Thus  Greece  frees  itself  for  a  time  of 
this  riddling  discordant  Thebes,  and  is  united  for  the 
great  foreign  expedition,  in  the  catalogue  of  whose  par- 
ticipants the  Theban  name  does  not  and  ought  not  to 
appeal'. 


THEBES   AND    PLAT^EA.  221 

Everywhere  in  the  legendary  epoch  of  Thebes  the  for- 
eign element  comes  to  the  surface  ;  it  is '  her  great  un- 
solved contradiction  which  brings  her  into  conflict  with 
Greece,  with  herself,  which  conflict  is  imaged  so  vividly 
in  her  tragic  characters.  The  Hellenic  people  cannot  en- 
dure with  such  deep  dissonance  in  their  very  heart,  it 
must  be  got  rid  of  even  by  violence.  Justly  then  the 
name  of  Thebes  is  not  set  down  in  the  Iliad,  being  strick- 
en by  the  bard  from  the  grand  muster-roll  of  the  Greeks 
against  Troy,  which  was  the  pride  of  so  many  small  Hel- 
lenic communities.  The  great  mythical  expedition  against 
the  Asiatic  is  no  part  of  her  glory ;  she  herself  was  the 
Asiatic  in  Greece  who  had  first  to  be  put  down ;  still  she 
remained  Trojan  in  sympathy,  for  did  we  not  see  the 
tomb  of  Hector  outside  of  the  Proetid  gate  among  her 
heroes  ? 

Such  is  the  legend,  which  some  maj7  be  inclined  to  pass 
over  as  a  thing  unreal.  But  in  that  second  great  muster- 
roll  against  the  Asiatic  —  the  muster-roll  called  before  the 
battle  of  Plataea  just  over  the  comb  of  yonder  hill  Teum- 
essus,  where  was  Thebes?  Alas,  more  than  missing; 
worse  than  stricken  from  the  list  of  patriotic  combatants 
is  her  name ;  the  historian  now  comes  forward  and  points 
her  out  standing  enranked  with  the  Asiatic  against  the 
Greek,  and  fighting  desperately  for  the  domination  of 
the  Orient.  Again  she  plays  the  foreigner  on  Greek  soil, 
and  shows  herself  in  history  as  well  as  in  legend  to  be  a 
traitor  to  Greek  civilization.  So  true  is  the  legendary  as 
well  as  the  historical  character  of  the  city ;  both  are  alike, 
being  two  different  reflections  of  one  and  the  same  object. 
She  lives  over  in  history  what  she  had  sung  of  in  le- 
gend ;  she  can*only  make  real  what  poesy  had  presented 
as  ideal.  History  then  can  simply  act  the  fable  over  again, 
with  much  additional  noise  and  confusion  perhaps  ;  it  is 
the  second  yet  more  turbid  fountain,  having  its  source  in 
the  first  clear  one  ;  yet  both  will  mirror  the  same  face. 

Thus  we  pass  through  the  Syrma,  seeking  to  make  its 
dust  give  up  the  ancient  shapes  that  lie  here,  and  to  ani- 
mate them  anew  with  their  innermost  spirit.  It  is  a  spot 
of  tragic  conflict,  of  terrific  dissonance, ..which  to  this  day 


222  A  WALK  TIT  HELLAS. 

jars  fiercely  yet  sympathetically  in  the  breast.  But  of  a 
sudden  the  sounds  change,  we  come  to  the  banks  of  the 
Dirkean  stream,  over  which  hover  untold  melodies,  swell- 
ing up  to  the  heavens.  Whence  can  arise  such  a  sudden 
transformation  of  echoes?  All  the  daughters  of  Mne- 
mosyne are  now  singing  in  unison  their  strains  over  Dirke, 
rearing  a  wall  of  music  against  the  strifeful  spot  of  the 
Dragging.  Through  that  melodious  wall  over  the  brook 
let  us  leap  at  once,  we  have  entered  another  world,  the 
tragic  discord  of  the  Syrma  has  been  cut  off  and  left  far 
behind,  and  man  has  become  a  most  harmonious  being, 
who  dwells  forever  amid  the  tuneful  spheres ;  we  have 
entered  the  house  of  Pindar. 

Upon  this  spot  it  stood  according  to  our  ancient  guide  ; 
here  the  poet  when  he  rose  at  morn  saw  the  first  beams  of 
Helius  play  over  the  Dirkean  waters.  The  material  house 
has  indeed  disappeared,  but  that  other  house  built  by 
Pindar  stands  visible,  nay  audible  to-day  and  forever. 
For  it  is  a  musical  house  still,  though  partly  in  ruins  ;  the 
most  happy  musical  temple  ever  erected  out  of  the  lofty 
hymn.  Into  it  we  may  enter  and  tarry  long,  catching  its 
harmonies  broken  at  times,  but  still  possessed  of  the 
sweetest  and  sublimest  cadences. 

Many  were  the  miraculous  things  told  of  him  in  an- 
tiquity, indicating  that  he  was  truly  a  child  of  the  Gods. 
On  that  hot  day  while  he  was  going  to  Thespia,  he  seems 
to  have  received  his  first  revelation ;  he  fell  asleep  along 
the  road  and  the  bees  lit  upon  his  lips,  depositing  there 
waxen  cells  for  honey ;  when  he  woke,  he  began  to  sing ; 
such,  says  the  ancient  narrator,  was  the  beginning  of  his 
making  hymns.  Then  the  appearance  of  Persephone, 
Goddess  of  the  Lower  Regions,  to  the  Poet  in  a  dream, 
complaining  that  to  her  alone  of  the  divinities  he  had  never 
written  a  hymn,  was  justified  by  his  character ;  dark 
Tartarean  realms  he  avoids,  but  delights  to  dwell  on  the 
upper  earth  in  Greek  sunshine.  Therefore  he  was  the 
special  favorite  of  Apollo,  God  of  Light,  whose  games  he 
has  celebrated  in  such  rapturous  splendor ;  the  pi'iestess 
at  Delphi  announced  to  all  Greece  to  give  to  Pindar  a 
share  of  the  first-fruits  equal  to  that  of  the  God.  Then 


THEBES    A^TD    PLAT^EA.  223 

too  the  proclamation  was  long  afterward  heard  at  the 
Delphic  shrine :  ' '  Let  the  poet  Pindar  come  into  his  sup- 
per with  the  God."  Indeed  he  is  the  product  and  cul- 
mination of  Delphi,  thither  we  shall  have  to  follow  him  in 
order  to  reach  the  deepest  and  richest  vein  of  his  charac- 
ter. In  the  dell  of  the  Oracle,  at  the  fount  of  Castalia, 
under  the  tops  of  Parnassus,  we  shall  have  to  place  him, 
where  prophecy  and  poesy  rocked  the  hills  with  musical 
wisdom,  whereof  he  is  the  highest  expression.  Pindar, 
on  the  whole,  may  be  taken  as  the  best  Delphic  utterance 
remaining  for  us  to-day. 

Still  he  belongs  here  too,  and  in  him  all  Thebes  turns 
to  harmony  —  that  discordant  Thebes  so  full  elsewhere  of 
tragic  destinies ;  nay,  that  sensual  Thebes,  receiving  its 
nickname  from  swinish  indulgence,  becomes  through  him 
the  most  ethereal  of  poetic  existences.  It  is  one  of  the 
marvels  of  this  land  that  it  could  bring  him  forth,  him  the 
most  ideal  of  men.  From  this  fat  soil  he  sprang,  this 
heavy  air  he  breathed,  upon  this  gross  vegetation  he  fed, 
yet  he  has  the  freest  rein  and  the  widest  bound  of  all 
poets,  often  a  little  too  sudden  in  his  earth-defying  leaps. 
To-day  we  confess  him  unrivalled  in  the  lyric ;  he  has  the 
exaltation,  the  sweep  of  imagination  and  the  greatness  of 
thought  which  belong  to  ah1  supreme  poetic  utterance. 

But  the  quality  in  which  he  surpasses  every  poet  whom 
I  have  read  after,  is  what  may  be  called  his  harmony. 
Not  that  light  superficial  thing  called  by  the  critics  har- 
monious versification  is  meant  now:  this  true  harmony 
flows  from  the  deepest  of  matters,  it  is  the  harmony  of 
the  All,  of  the  Universe  uttering  itself  in  the  measured 
syllables  of  the  bard.  At  his  best  moment  each  word  is 
set  in  vibration  which  sings  long  afterward  in  the  ear  or 
rather  in  the  soul,  indeed  one  will  never  get  rid  of  that 
music  truly  heard ;  but  such  a  word  is  only  a  note  of  the 
song  which  in  its  completeness  will  make  your  whole  being 
throb  and  thrill  in  attunemeut  with  its  strains.  Yet  not 
37ou  alone,  but  nature  outside  of  you  vibrates  to  the  chords 
of  the  lyre  which  the  poet  touches ;  both  the  inner  and 
outer  world  are  absorbed  into  the  stride  and  swell  of  his 
harmonies.  All  Time,  too,  is  therein  made  musical,  as 


224  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

to-day  sunny  Thebes  seems  to  be  gently  moving  to  pulsa- 
tions of  those  ancient  hymns. 

Such  is  the  Pindaric  music,  unattainable  by  any  exter- 
nal combination  of  sounds  and  syllables,  or  by  any  ar- 
rangement of  the  scanning  machine  ;  what  modern  would 
get  it,  if  only  thus  it  could  be  reached?  It  goes  far 
deeper,  as  it  must  in  all  true  poetry ;  the  rhythm  must  lie 
ultimately  in  the  thought  wedding  itself  to  speech ;  the 
words  are  but  the  outward  drapery  dropping  into  sym- 
phonic folds  from  the  rapturous  pulsations  within;  the 
fountain  of  Pindar's  harmony  is  in  the  soul,  and  there 
only  can  it  be  truly  heard.  It  is  a  great  mistake  to  think 
that  the  music  of  poetry  comes  from  the  jingle  of  sounds, 
short  and  long,  accented  and  unaccented,  from  the  em- 
ployment of  open  vowels,  from  the  abolition  of  certain 
consonants  in  certain  situations.  Much  talk  of  this  kind 
has  been  heard  of  late ;  but  such  doctrines  can  do  hardly 
more  than  construct  a  well-regulated  poetical  machine 
which  will  grind  at  any  time  with  any  person  turning  the 
crank  ;  thus  we  may  attain  a  light-flowing  Italian  melody 
at  the  very  best,  but  not  all-pervading,  all-subduing 
organ  harmonies.  First  there  must  be  the  thought  great 
and  worthy,  then  it  must  pulse  with  an  inner  ecstasy 
which  bursts  forth  into  utterance. 

No  counting  of  syllables,  then,  is  going  to  reveal  to 
you  the  deepest  secret  of  poetic  harmonies.  It  is  true 
that  in  verse  measure  is  necessary ;  but  this  is  the  me- 
chanical part,  it  is  the  outer  to  which  there  must  be  an 
inner  that  creates  it  and  puts  it  musically  on  like  a  rich 
glowing  vestment.  Poetry  cannot  do  without  that  fixed 
recurrence  of  accents  called  meter ;  even  the  sea,  most 
melodious  of  Nature's  instruments,  has  a  measured 
rhythm,  a  regular  beat  in  its  rise  and  fall,  as  if  the  waves 
were  keeping  time  after  some  invisible  master.  Yet 
hardly  are  we  to  think  of  the  meter  the  while,  but  to  hear 
the  music  ;  it  is  the  harmonious  thought  of  Pindar  which 
makes  every  word  drop  tuneful  from  his  lips ;  too  often 
his  strains  get  lost  in  that  labyrinth  of  metrical  schemes, 
which  produce  so  much  discord,  at  least  among  gramma- 
rians. I  cannot  help  thinking  that  Pindar's  verse,  and 


THEBES    AND    PLATJEA.  225 

all  true  verse,  makes  its  own  scheme  as  it  goes  along,  to 
a  degree  ;  it  throbs  great  waves  of  harmony  through  any 
soul  musically  attuned,  without  scansion  ;  for  I  must  re- 
fuse to  believe  that  the  dry  prosodical  man  who  scans 
Pindar  is  the  sole  person  who  has  become  heir  to  his 
melodious  wealth.  An  inborn  poetic  sense  may  perhaps 
be  better  tested  by  Pindar's  verse  than  by  that  of  any 
other  poet ;  if  no  music  be  heard  there,  whatever  the  outer 
ear  may  be,  the  poetic  soul  is  of  dubious  existence. 

This  harmony,  then,  combined  with  his  exaltation  is 
Pindar's  highest  poetical  characteristic.  Next  to  him 
perhaps  Dante  should  be  placed,  who  likewise  possesses 
the  power  of  setting  all  in  vibration  to  the  strains  of  his 
poetry ;  even  the  dry  abstractions  of  scholastic  theology 
move  in  his  Paradiso  with  a  strange  enraptured  rhythm. 
Here  also  lies  the  chief  miraculous  gift  of  our  Milton, 
though  he  is  behind  the  two  who  have  been  mentioned. 
These  are  pre-eminently  the  poets  of  harmony,  to  my 
mind ;  others  greater  than  they  have  existed  because  of 
the  possession  of  a  still  greater  quality,  in  conjunction 
with  this  one. 

Pindar  is  the  most  rapt  expression  of  the  Greek  world, 
the  Delphic  utterance  of  it  we  may  say.  His  sympathy 
with  Hellenic  life  is  complete  ;  he  is  in  the  main  content  to 
live  as  his  forefathers  lived ;  we  do  not  find  in  him  the 
profound  questionings  of  the  Attic  poets,  he  is  too  har- 
monious. He  does  not  assail  the  established,  he  is  at  one 
with  the  religion  and  the  morality  of  his  age  —  a  conserva- 
tive poet  we  may  consider  him.  Yet  he  will  not  accept  all 
the  myths  which  have  been  handed  down,  nor  does  he  fail 
to  castigate  certain  evils  of  his  city  and  time.  But  he  is 
not  a  satirist,  not  a  revolutionist ;  he  is  in  harmony  with 
the  world  and  the  world  with  him ;  so  that  he  becomes  the 
throbbing  utterance  of  the  games,  of  the  festivals,  of  the 
songs  in  that  joyous  Greek  life  around  him. 

But  it  is  time  to  leave  the  unseen  musical  house  of  the 
poet,  and  take  a  morning  walk  with  him  up  the  Dirkean 
stream  which  winds  around  the  hill  on  which  the  city  is 
built  and  babbles  transparent  at  his  very  door-sill.  The 
slanting  ra}rs  are  glancing  over  it  somewhat  as  he  beheld 

15 


226  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

them  ;  yet  in  his  lines  even  the  sunbeams  are  gifted  with 
new  splendor.  One  looks  up  at  the  old  walls  still  girding 
the  brow  of  the  hill  with  their  remains,  those  are  the 
stones  that  danced  into  their  place  yonder  to  the  tune  of 
Amphion's  lyre,  according  to  the  fable ;  still  there  is  a 
rude  harmony  in  that  massive  Cyclopean  work  of  the 
olden  time.  A  pile  of  stones  which  has  been  pushed  from 
the  wall,  one  will  think,  shows  the  trace  of  Alexander  who 
destroyed  the  city  anciently ;  there  they  have  lain  ever 
since.  Gigantic  masonry  was  that  of  early  Greece,  laying 
foundations  to  last  forever,  and  jointing  the  huge  boulders 
to  the  sound  of  music,  it  is  said.  But  look  at  the  modern 
hut  upon  the  wall,  and,  as  it  were,  growing  out  of  it;  the 
little  stones  seem  about  to  fall  asunder,  held  together  by 
no  strong  cement  nor  by  gravity,  nor  by  any  harmony ; 
one  small  window  looks  down  upon  Dirke,  out  of  which  a 
rag  is  hanging.  Such  are  indeed  often  the  ancient  and 
the  modern  in  contrast,  forming  the  two  interchanging 
threads  of  our  Hellenic  journey. 

Here  the  stream  divides  into  two  channels,  an  artificial 
and  a  natural  one,  running  almost  side  by  side.  Further 
on,  little  arches  and  aqueducts  appear,  many  now  old  and 
neglected ;  there  is  a  sort  of  play  with  the  waters  whose 
current  is  just  large  enough  to  allow  itself  to  be  pleasantly 
handled  and  toyed  with.  On  the  roots  of  an  old  elm  the 
pedestrian  will  sit  down  for  a  while  ;  not  far  off  is  a  rustic 
bridge  spanning  the  brook,  composed  mainly  of  ancient 
materials,  if  not  ancient  itself,  for  the  eye  is  often  greeted 
with  a  finely  cut  piece  of  stone  or  even  of  marble.  Under- 
foot traces  of  foundations  come  to  view,  hardly  determin- 
able  now  ;  shrines  and  temples  we  place  here,  for  we  know 
that  this  little  valley  was  full  of  them  in  antiquity.  At 
one  point,  from  the  marks  yet  visible,  and  still  more  from 
the  situation,  I  imagine  some  fane  to  have  been  built  over 
the  stream,  for  here  Dirke  ripples  along  most  happy  and 
full.  Some  caves  too  we  shall  notice,  once  inhabited  by 
the  nymphs ;  the  niches  to  hold  the  image  can  still  be 
seen.  Thus  Dirke  sweeps  around  the  base  of  Thebes 
from  the  semi-lunar  ridge  toward  the  North;  for  the 
circular  Cadmeian  hill  reposes  in  the  arms  of  another  hill, 


THEBES   AND    PLAT^EA.  227 

crescent-shaped,  like  the  old  moon  resting  in  the  new ; 
between  these  two  hills  Dirke  keeps  up  her  babble.  Happy 
stream!  try  to  look  at  it  with  ancient  eyes  as  a  thing 
divine,  bestowing  good  gifts,  purifying  the  land  and  the 
people ;  still  more  regard  it  with  the  eye  of  the  old  poet 
as  a  thing  of  beauty,  in  whose  waters  are  often  seen  shapes 
hinting  of  what  is  fairest  and  best  in  that  antique  world. 

Still  modern  matters  must  not  drop  out  of  view,  so 
much  duty  we  owe  to  our  own  time  that  we  should  at 
least  live  in  it.  White  fustanellas  are  before  our  path, 
following  the  plow  in  the  narrow  valley  between  the  city 
and  the  crescent ;  you  will  see  the  plow  turn  up  the  relics 
of  a  whole  world  passed  away ;  the  soil  is  filled  with  bricks, 
tiles,  mortar,  bits  of  marble  and  potsherds.  Only  in  the 
invisible  realm  can  it  be  constructed  again,  and  this  is 
also  one  of  the  duties  of  the  traveler  in  Greece.  New 
voices  now  float  in  the  air ;  they  come  from  gossiping 
washerwomen  who  are  still  heard  along  Dirke,  invoking 
the  nymph  of  the  stream  to  aid  them  in  the  great  work  of 
purification;  their  tongues  at  least  falter  never  —  be  it 
prayer,  or  some  bit  of  village  scandal.  A  school-boy 
passes  with  books  under  his  arm ;  I  stop  him  and  inquire 
much  ;  he  reads  me  a  passage  from  the  Education  of  Cyrus 
in  old  Greek,  there  under  the  elm.  Go  on  to  school, 
thou  art  indeed  the  star  of  hope  for  Thebes,  for  Greece, 
rising  over  Dirke  and  illuminating  her  waters. 

So  we  may  follow  Dirke  up  to  one  of  her  sources ;  half 
a  mile  or  so  from  the  city  the  stream  forks,  and  we  shall 
wander  along  the  branch  to  the  left  with  its  high  banks 
above  us.  Soon  we  approach  the  gushing  source  —  a 
veritable  shrine  of  the  Naiads,  tricked  out  by  themselves 
for  their  ownxchosen  seats.  A  light  waterfall  leaps  over, 
the  wall  of  the  rock  underneath  is  wet  and  mossy,  with 
veins  of  water  everywhere  pulsing  through  the  green 
matted  moss  ;  the  rills  gathering  into  one  stream  meet  be- 
hind a  small  island  on  which  is  quite  a  large  willow  with 
drooping  branches.  Just  the  combination  of  rock,  water 
and  sedge  ;  in  a  lone  spot ;  filled  with  old  memories  — it 
was  certainly  a  shrine.  Laugh  at  your  extravagant 
traveler ;  but  he  would  be  worth  nothing,  I  maintain,  if 


228  A  WALK  IX  HELLAS. 

he  could  not  overflow  with  the  gush  of  this  spring,  in  deep 
joy,  saying  to  himself:  Yes,  I  have  found  it,  this  is  'the 
home  of  the  nymphs  of  the  stream,  here  they  dance  on 
the  sedge,  yonder  they  bathe,  always  from  this  source 
they  wander  down  to  the  city  joyously  leaping  over  the 
pebbles,  making  sweet  music  to  the  sport  of  the  waters. 

A  walk  up  Dirke  will  eminently  repay  us,  though  we 
have  to  add  much  to  its  present  appearance  in  order  to 
recall  its  ancient  glory.  Plane-trees  were  here  and 
pleasant  promenades,  with  many  a  white  statue  and 
column  glimmering  through  the  leaves.  But  mainly 
Pindar  was  here,  and  daily  took  his  walk  up  and  down 
this  brook ;  still  it  is  musical  with  his  voice  and  attunes 
us  to  his  strain.  Who  cannot  behold  him,  sauntering 
along,  turning  up  his  face  gleaming  with  exaltation  as  he 
^looks  at  the  sunbeams  falling  over  the  Dirkean  stream, 
the  holy  water?  In  him  indeed  the  nymph  has  first  found 
utterance  ;  and  still  it  is  not  she  so  much  as  he  that  holds 
us  ou  this  spot  in  a  miraculous  spell.  Such  is  Nature  ;  we 
hear  her  mostly  through  the  Poet,  to  whose  vision  she 
truly  reveals  herself.  Without  him  Dirke  is  only  a  brook, 
nothing  more,  just  like  thousands  of  other  brooks ;  but 
now  it  is  a  symbol,  beautiful,  perchance  sacred — he  has 
made  it.  Take  a  drink,  wash  your  face  in  the  Pindaric 
waters,  then  spring  up  the  bank. 

So  long  has  endured  our  peaceful,  idyllic  mood  attuned 
to  Pindaric  strains  —  but  hark !  a  trumpet  blowing  the 
blast  of  war  comes  echoing  over  yonder  ridge.  Thither 
accordingly  we  must  go,  hastening  up  the  slant  of  the  hill 
to  see  what  is  taking  place  beyond.  Passing  over  its 
crest  we  note  a  wide  valley  moving  into  view,  upon  which 
mauy  herds  are  grazing ;  through  that  valley  winds  a 
stream,  not  large,  but  called  here  a  river.  It  is  the  As- 
opus,  which  once  before  we  have  come  upon  further  down. 
Peasants  are  here  trimming  their  vineyards.  What  is 
the  name  of  yonder  village,  lying  at  the  foot  of  the 
mountain  across  the  valley?  It  is  called  Kokla,  ancient 
Plataea. 

Here,  then,  we  look  upon  the  battle-field  where  the 
great  struggle  of  Greece  with  the  Orient,  called  the  Per- 


THEBES   AND  PLATAEA.  229 

sian  War,  was  brought  to  an  end.  What  Marathon  had 
prophesied  was  now  made  actual,  the  full  meaning  of  that 
victory  was  confirmed  upon  these  meadows.  Greeee  is 
henceforth  to  be  left  to  develop  within,  and  soon  the  ex- 
ternal war  will  be  transformed  to  an  internal  one ;  the 
Persian  she  will  find  in  her  own  people.  Lofty  Kithacron 
yonder  looks  down  upon  Plataea  from  his  snowy  sum- 
mits —  will  he  ever  behold  another  such  a  struggle  at  his 
feet?  Hai'dly  within  any  imaginary  cycle  of  years;  the 
battle-line  of  the  World's  History  has  moved  far  forward. 
Over  the  meadow,  then,  toward  ancient  Plataea  we  must 
pass  ;  perchance  the  place  will  yet  give  back  some  echoes 
of  the  old  conflict.  Wet  spots  and  streams  again  ob- 
struct the  way,  but  they  are  easily  forded ;  thus  for 
hours  we  ramble  through  the  valley  listening  to  the 
ancient  clash  of  arms  and  the  tramp  of  the  war-steeds, 
mingled  now  with  the  very  pacific  refrain  of  pastoral 
bells. 

But  the  chief  interest  circles  around  those  battlements 
yonder,  still  visible  though  in  decay.  On  the  whole  the 
ancient  village  that  lay  there  may  be  said  to  have  posses- 
sed the  most  intense  individuality  of  any  Hellenic  com- 
munity large  or  small ;  its  people  were  the  most  Greek  of 
the  Greeks.  We  have  already  heand  of  them,  when  they 
sent  their  whole  population  to  Marathon*,  1,000  strong, 
to  drive  out  the  Persian,  the  only  town  outside  of  Attica 
which  did  so  ;  that  was,  however,  but  one  characteristic 
deed.  They  appear  in  the  first  great  muster-roll  of  the 
Greeks  against  the  Asiatic,  the  Homeric  catalogue ;  with 
their  modest  armament  of  nine  ships  they  open  their  career 
and  remain  true  to  its  principle  to  the  last.  For  it  the}' 
suffered  untold  afflictions,  yet  we  read  of  no  bending,  no 
compromise.  Destroyed  and  restored  at  least  three  times 
in  the  course  of  Greek  history,  the  community  preserves 
the  same  inflexible  character,  the  same  fidelity  and  pat- 
riotism. Through  the  legendary  and  historic  epochs  it 
exhibits  the  one  fundamental  trait ;  in  the  mythical  con- 
flict on  the  plains  of  Troy,  the  little  town  on  .the  slope 
of  the  Kithaeron  is  not  absent,  nor  in  the  supreme 
conflict  of  history,  fought  at  its  very  gates.  That 


230  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

town  is  Plataea  upon  whose  site  we,  with  a  slight 
effort  of  imagination,  may  consider  ourselves  now  to  be 
standing. 

Scarcely  five  miles  distant  in  a  straight  line  from 
Thebes,  it  is  in  every  respect  the  opposite  of  that  city. 
The  fact  has  already  been  mentioned  that  there  was  al- 
ways a  foreign  element  at  Thebes,  hostile,  or  at  least,  un- 
sympathetic with  the  Hellenic  world.  Not  without  good 
reason  did  the  ancient  traveler  consider  the  Platseans  to 
be  sprung  from  their  own  soil,  in  contrast  to  the  stran- 
gers, who  settled  on  the  Cadmeia  across  yonder  ridge  on 
the  other  side  of  Teumessus.  Hence  the  bitter  enmity 
between  Thebes  and  Platoea ;  the  resolute  little  town  never 
would  submit  to  that  foreign  influence  like  other  Boeotian 
towns.  It  is  the  one  great  Panhellenic  spot  in  Bceotia, 
though  other  Boeotian  towns  are  not  devoid  of  patriotism, 
particularly  Thespia.  Nay,  this  may  be  said  of  Plataea, 
that  of  all  the  villages  famed  for  heroism,  it  occupies 
rather  the  highest  place  in  the  World's  History.  No  other 
small  community  that  1  know  of,  can  show  the  same  un- 
swerving devotion  to  the  supreme  interests  of  its  nation, 
and  of  its  race,  amid  such  continued  and  terrific  outpour- 
ing of  calamities.  Through  all  the  great  Greek  historians 
its  story  moves,  fortunate  at  times,  oftener  unfortunate  — 
but  always  glorious  and  honorable.  Destiny  justly 
placed  the  final  victory  over  the  Orient  under  its  very 
walls,  and  called  that  victory  by  the  Platsean  name ;  and 
on  that  famous  day  the  meed  of  being  the  bravest  of  the 
brave  was  given  by  the  voice  of  the  assembled  Greeks  to 
the  Platieans.  In  their  territories  the  monuments  of  the 
victory  were  erected  and  stood  for  centuries ;  new  tem- 
ples to  the  Gods  were  built  from  the  spoils  of  the  van- 
quished ;  Zeus  the  Liberator,  the  God  of  this  Plataean 
battle,  and  of  the  whole  Persian  War,  was  henceforth  to 
be  the  special  divinity  of  this  spot,  and  games  in  honor 
of  the  event  were  celebrated  by  all  Greece  under  the 
presidency  of  the  Platieans.  Then  the  cloud  gathers  and 
bursts  in  the  Peloponesian  War ;  now  it  is  brother  against 
brother ;  brave  little  Platsea  is  encompassed  with  fire  and 
sword ;  but  I  cannot  give  you  history  here,  read  the  ac- 


THEBES   AND    PLAT^EA.  231 

count  of  its  siege  and  destruction  in  the  adamantine  yet 
deeply  pathetic  words  of  Thucydides. 

Yet  one  more  peculiarity  must  be  mentioned  in  regard 
to  this  town :  it  produced  no  mighty  towering  individual- 
ity, no  Great  Man,  in  whom  it  seemed  to  sink  away; 
sc  ircely  has  the  name  of  a  single  leader  been  preserved. 
Far  different  was  it  elsewhere  in  Greece ;  the  Hellenic 
world  developed  the  individual  above  all  other  times  or 
nations  ;  its  great  characters  are  still  our  exemplars,  our 
heroes.  Not  so  Plataea ;  its  people  seem  to  have  acted 
collectively  and  of  their  own  spontaneous  impulse ;  in  the 
great  battles  we  always  read  of  them  as  a  whole  —  the 
Plahieans  were  there.  No  Great  Man  then  can  be  named : 
the  result  was  that  the  town  seems  to  have  been  freer  from 
dissension,  from  the  partisan  conflicts  of  powerful  leaders 
than  the  other  communities  of  Greece,  it  acted  as  a  unit 
under  its  deep  Hellenic  impulse.  It  did  not  rear  men 
stronger  than  itself,  men  too  great  for  the  State,  but 
each  member  of  it  seems  to  have  fitted  harmoniously  into 
the  whole.  As  intense  as  its  enmity  to  Thebes  the 
stranger,  was  its  friendship  for  Athens  the  defender  and 
bearer  of  Greek  civilization ;  and  this  friendship,  so  true, 
yet  so  humble,  is  one  of  the  teuderest  throbs  out  of  the 
heart  of  Greek  history. 

Thus  the  Asiatic  is  defeated  and  expelled  at  Plattea ; 
all  Greece  is  now  in  happy  jubilee  and  harmony  with 
one  chief  exception.  It  is  that  old  discordant  Thebes 
with  its  foreign  note  on  Greek  soil ;  during  the  great 
Plataean  day,  its  people  fought  desperately  in  the  ranks 
of  the  Asiatic.  The  dissonance  must  be  got  rid  of  — 
so  thinks  the  victorious  Greek  army  still  encamped 
along  the  Asopus ;  forwai'd  then  to  the  discordant  city. 
Again  an  army  of  heroic  shapes  appear  before  the  seven 
gates  of  Thebes,  capture  it  and  purify  it  of  Medism,  of 
Asiatic  tendencies.  So  we  recollect  that  the  Argive 
band  in  the  legendary  age  took  it  and  attuned  it  to 
a  Hellenic  note,  for  a  time  at  least.  History  and  legend 
give  the  same  utterance  concerning  Thebes ;  they  give 
the  same  utterance  also  concerning  Plataja ;  the  two 
Boeotian  communities,  about  four  miles  apart,  repre- 


232  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

sent  the  mightiest  opposing  principles  of  the  World's 
History. 

In  such  manner  Greece  is  again  made  harmonious  by 
casting  the  discord  out  of  Thebes.  But  who  does  it? 
Pausanias,  the  great  leader  of  the  allied  Greeks  at  Plataea. 
By  his  victory  over  the  Persian  and  by  his  eradication  of 
Theban  Medism,  he  has  thrown  himself  to  the  front  of  the 
Greek  world,  and  become  the  bearer  of  Greek  civiliza- 
tion. But  his  success  has  made  him  too  great  for  his 
time  and  for  his  country;  he,  after  putting  down  the 
Asiatic  and  the  Thebau,  falls  at  last  himself  into  their 
guilt,  becomes  inharmonious  with  the  Greek  world,  and 
medizes.  Thus  he,  too,  like  those  old  legendary  Theban 
heroes  makes  out  of  a  life  a  tragedy.  But  not  he  alone : 
another  Greek  looms  up  during  these  Persian  wars  greater 
than  even  he,  in  native  genius  the  mightiest  individuality 
that  Greece  ever  produced  —  Themistocles,  the  Athenian, 
hero  of  Salamis.  What  becomes  of  him?  Alas !  he  meets 
with  the  same  fate  ;  he  flees  to  Asiatic  soil,  he  seek*  the 
favor  of  the  Persian  monarch,  under  whose  sway  it  is 
said  that  he  died  the  death  of  nature,  still  he  died  with 
the  purpose  which  made  him  deeply  tragic :  the  purpose 
of  undoing  all  his  great  work  for  Greece  and  for  civiliza- 
tion. 

Such  is  the  end  of  the  two  most  distinguished,  and  we 
may  say,  mightiest  characters  of  this  mighty  epoch ;  after 
performing  the  greatest  and  noblest  deeds  for  their  country 
and  race,  they  become  harsh,  all  jangled  and  out  of  tune, 
winding  up  in  shrillest  discord.  They  give  an  insight  into 
the  deepest  phase  of  Greek  spirit ;  the  heroic  character 
was  developed  to  such  an  extent  that  it  became  too  great 
for  its  country.  This  tendency  belongs  to  Greece ;  to  all 
Greece ;  in  the  present  case  it  is  a  Spartan  as  well  as  an 
Athenian  whose  greatness  becomes  discordant  with  their 
little  states.  Never  has  any  society  developed  the  indi- 
vidual so  perfectly  and  harmoniously  as  the  Grecian ;  still 
the  end  was  a  dissonance ;  as  the  result  of  his  training 
and  life  he  became  mightier  than  his  country,  mightier 
than  institutions  and  dropped  back  into  despotic  Orien- 
talism, which  can  endure  only  the  one  individual.  This 


THEBES   AND   PLAT^EA.  2oo 

danger  the  Greek  communities  themselves  felt,  and  it 
was  a  problem,  with  them  what  to  do  with  their  mighty 
characters,  too  mighty  for  them.  The  ostracism  was 
merely  a  peaceful  means  whereby  a  Greek  city  sought  to 
get  rid  of  one  of  its  Great  Men  when  it  was  too  small  to 
contain  so  many  of  them,  with  their  ambition,  strength  of 
will  and  intellectual  resources.  Nearly  all  famous  Greek 
characters  have  the  one  epitaph:  too  great  for  their 
country. 

The  historian  Thucydides  who  belonged  to  the  same 
epoch  and  whose  style  shows  the  same  towering  individu- 
ality, has  told  the  story  of  these  two  typical  men,  Pausa- 
nias  and  Themistocles,  with  an  awe-inspiring  directness, 
as  if  he  himself  were  dazed  at  the  consequences  which  he 
beheld  in  their  fate,  however  much  he  tries  to  suppress 
himself.  Well  may  that  narrative  inspire  terror  in  the 
nation  which  has  within  it  such  a  terrific  contradiction. 
It  reveals  to  the  Greek  world  that  of  which  it  is  to  die  ; 
for  in  these  men  it  can  behold  its  own  limitation,  can  look 
down  from  the  very  pinnacle  whence  it  will  be  dashed  to 
pieces.  That  story  has  still  a  throb  of  dismay  breaking 
up  through  the  stern  self-control  of  the  historian,  and 
moves  the  reader  with  a  kindred  awe.  Well  it  may,  both 
for  us  and  for  the  old  Greeks,  since  it  shows  the  outcome 
of  thfiir  most  illustrious  characters,  and  of  their  world. 
It  is  a  prophecy  indeed  —  because  the  profoundest  fact  of 
the  nation  and  age. 

These  great  characters,  then,  are  the  handwriting  in 
which  we  may  read  the  destiny  of  Greece,  their  end  pre- 
figures her  end.  The  disease  of  which  the  Great  Man 
dies  is  the  disease  of  his  country,  sooner  or  later  his  fate 
will  be  her  fate.  For  she  has  brought  him  forth,  and  im- 
parted to  him  the  intensest  phase  of  her  own  nature  at 
his  birth ;  concentrated  into  one  burning  point  of  indi- 
viduality he  has  all  that  she  has  —  both  her  strength  and 
her  weakness.  The  mother's  mole  flames  red  from  his 
forehead,  had  we  the  eye  to  see  it  there ;  upon  his  acts  is 
always  stamped  in  letters  of  fire  her  character,  indeed  her 
destiny.  So  this  happy  harmonious  Greece  will  become 
all  discord,  nay,  is  destined  to  relapse  into  the  veryprinci- 


234  A  WALK  Itf  HELLAS. 

pie  which  she  has  so  gloriously  met  and  put  down.  After 
the  greatest  deeds  and  mightiest  harmonies,  she  will  fall 
into  contradiction  with  herself,  like  Themistocles,  like 
Pausanias.  These  two  are  her  prophetic  sons,  in  their 
actions  foretelling  her  end ;  she  will,  after  conquering 
the  Orient,  drop  back  into  Orientalism,  and  be  absorbed 
into  an  Eastern  empire  ;  she  brings  forth  Alexander,  con- 
querer  of  Asia,  mightiest  of  all  her  sons,  mighty  enough 
now  to  destroy  her,  and  fulfill  the  prophecy  of  Themisto- 
cles. 

Such  is  the  account  of  the  Greek  Historian ;  but  the 
same  story  had  been  told  long  before  him  quite  as  im- 
pressively and  in  far  more  brilliant  colors  by  the  Greek 
Poet.  Legend  too  has  revealed  the  Greek  character  in 
its  deepest  phase  and  made  its  innermost  spiritual  scission 
the  theme  of  its  greatest  masterpiece.  In  the  first  book 
of  the  Iliad  is  narrated  the  famous  quarrel  between  Aga- 
memnon and  Achilles.  Who  is  Achilles  ?  The  surpass- 
ing Hero,  the  great  Individual  who  spurns  authority  and 
moodily  retires  from  the  conflict,  letting  the  enemy  con- 
quer. There  also  the  Heroic  Individual  is  too  great  for 
obedience  to  the  established  institutions ;  there  also  un- 
told calamities  fall  upon  the  Greek  host  and  many  souls 
are  sent  to  Hades  ;  and  the  Poet  must  sing,  as  his  truest 
poetical  theme,  not  the  taking  of  Troy  or  the  submission 
of  the  Orient,  but  the  wrath  of  Achilles,  the  Heroic  In- 
dividual. Homer  and  Thucydides,  singer  of  legend  and 
writer  of  history,  so  diverse  in  form,  give  the  same  funda- 
mental utterance  concerning  their  own  nation's  character. 

But  there  is  one  heroic  individual  of  Greek  history  who 
does  not  produce  this  discord,  and  strange  to  say  he  is  of 
discordant  Thebes.  Look  off  yonder  from  this  Plataean 
height  where  we  now  stand,  to  the  left  some  five  or  six 
miles ;  there  is  the  field  of  Leuctra.  Let  all  else  sink  out 
of  sight,  as  it  well  may,  but  notice  that  man  marshaling 
his  Theban  wedge  of  soldiery  and  smiting  the  hitherto  in- 
vincible Spartan  column  with  utter  discomfiture  —  it  is 
Epaminondas,  the  most  ideal  man  in  Greek  history,  evi- 
dently the  completest  most  universal  Grecian  man. 
Though  endowed  with  the  highest  gifts  of  thought  and 


THEBES   AND    PLAT^EA.  235 

action,  though  harassed  by  envy  and  persecution,  he  will 
never  become  discordant  with  his  city.  We  may  pro- 
nounce his  fundamental  trait  like  that  of  Pindar,  to  be 
harmony  —  harmony  developed  into  thought,  deepened 
into  character,  and  finally  realized  into  action.  The 
greatest  qualities  he  possessed,  yet  not  in  conflict  with 
one  another  nor  with  the  world,  but  trained  to  a  perfect 
symmetry,  or  even  musical  concord. 

Throughout  his  education  we  find  that  he  lays  stress 
upon  harmonious  development  of  both  body  and  mind. 
His  early  gymnastic  training  sought  physical  power  com- 
bined with  ease  of  motion ;  then  he  exercised  himself  in 
the  chorus  with  dancing,  which  gave  rhythm  and  grace  to 
his  movements.  Music  he  learned  with  great  assiduity,  — 
the  flute,  the  lyre,  the  song — thus  attuning  his  emotional 
nature  to  the  agreement  of  sweet  sounds.  But  the  high- 
est branch  of  his  education  was  the  study  of  philosophy, 
the  supreme  science,  which  orders  and  attunes  the  whole 
universe  for  its  true  disciple.  Also  the  philosophy  which 
Epaminondas  studied  should  be  noted ;  it  was  that  of 
Pythagoras,  whose  principle  was  based  upon  number,  like 
the  science  of  harmony  itself,  and  whose  supreme  utter- 
ance is  heard  in  the  music  of  the  spheres.  Such  was  his 
education,  in  violent  contrast  to  the  ordinary  Theban 
athlete,  overfed  and  ignorant,  the  gross  product  of 
Boeotian  vegetation  ;  but  he  is  the  completely  harmonious 
man,  gifted  with  utterance  too,  for  in  eloquence  he  rivals 
the  great  Athenian  orators,  winning  laurels  even  from 
silver-tongued  Callistratus. 

With  such  a  happy  training  let  us  proceed  to  the  final 
test,  the  action  of  the  man.  Here  we  shall  all  confess, 
that  the  deeds  of  the  patriot  Epaminondas  are  the  su- 
preme harmony  of  Greece  in  the  realm  of  noble  conduct. 
He  never  became  too  great  for  his  country,  and  turned 
unharmonious,  like  those  other  mighty  characters.  He 
brings  organization  into  the  Theban  polity,  and  organiza- 
tion of  the  highest  order  is  harmony.  Nay,  his  whole 
purpose  extends  beyond  his  own  city's  narrow  limita- 
tions, and  seeks  manifestly  to  bring  some  kind  of  har- 
mony into  discordant  Greece.  The  chief  glory  of  Thebes 


lo('>  A   WALK  Iff  HELLAS. 

is  that  she  produced  Epaminondas ;  without  him  she  is 
nothing,  worse  than  nothing,  as  regards  action.  Pelopi- 
das  shines  too,  but  by  his  light,  as  his  friend ;  this  friend- 
ship, this  perfect  accord  with  another  soul,  must  be  noted 
as  one  of  the  harmonies  of  his  life,  and  is  one  of  the 
sweetest  notes  of  the  period.  Epaminondas  is  all  Thebes, 
all  Theban  history  of  honor ;  when  he  is  taken  away,  there 
is  left  mainly  her  discord,  and  her  sudden  supremacy 
sinks  with  him  into  the  grave. 

Such  is  the  Theban  man  of  action.  But  as  we  come 
back  toward  the  city,  thinking  of  him,  Dirke  is  again  bab- 
bling over  the  pebbles  at  our  side.  Pindar  too  arises, 
not  the  man  of  action,  but  the  singer  of  harmonious  ac- 
tion. The  two,  Pindar  and  Epaminondas,  truly  belong 
together;  each  is  perfect  in  his  sphere,  in  happy  con- 
cord ;  each  is  supremely  harmonious  with  the  other.  In 
them  the  world  of  action  and  the  world  of  musical  ex- 
pression are  two  great  symphonies  in  complete  unison. 
Like  Pindar's  broken  lyre,  the  life  of  Epaminondas  has 
reached  us  only  in  fragments  of  the  grand  Whole  — 
fragments  handed  down  mainly  by  an  unfriendly  histo- 
rian, Xenophon;  still,  even  under  the  touch  of  an  enemy, 
that  harmonious  life  reveals  all  its  notes.  In  him  there 
is  no  excess  of  hatred  against  his  foes,  no  cruelty,  no 
jealousy  of  rivals,  no  wild  ambition,  no  avarice,  —  all  is 
in  happy  rhythm  and  proportion.  But  mark  the  most 
harmonious  strain  of  his  character :  he  can  obey  as  well 
as  command,  fulfill  the  humblest  duties,  as  well  as  the 
highest.  Never  forget  that  typical  anecdote  how  he, 
serving  as  common  soldier,  is  called  forth  from  the  ranks 
to  save  a  Theban  army  from  destruction,  and  does  save 
it ;  thus  he  sweeps  from  the  lowest  place  to  the  highest 
authority,  without  extravagance  or  infatuation,  without 
dissonance  of  any  kind.  So  we  must  place  him  above  all, 
above  Pausanias  and  Themistocles,  who  became  discord- 
ant ;  —  Epaminondas  is  the  completest,  most  universal 
Grecian  man." 

Thus  we  ascend  again  into  Thebes,  the  Ismenian  stream 
runs  through  the  valley  in  many  a  conduit,  and  recalls 
tuneful  shreds  of  hymns  vanishing  melodiously  into  for- 


FROM  THEBES   TO  LEBEDEIA.  237 

getf  ulness.  It  too  vibrates  gently  to  the  music  of  ancient 
Pindaric  measures,  lying  embedded  there  like  a  jewel ; 
but  the  harmonies  of  the  poet  now  pass  over  into  deed, 
and  his  exalted  rhythm  realizes  itself  in  the  actions  and 
character  of  a  man.  Pindar  is  fulfilled  in  Epaminondas. 
From  the  twain  old  discordant  Thebes  is  throbbing  with 
new  melodies  ;  those  tragic  dissonances,  which  we  heard 
at  the  beginning  of  the  da}*-,  are  swallowed  up  in  the  happy 
strain  of  the  evening.  Let  us  enter  the  walls,  those  walls 
whose  stones  moved  into  their  places  to  the  sound  of 
Amphion's  lyre,  marching  forth  from  their  quarries  ;  still 
they  palpitate  in  the  twilight  to  the  ancient  music.  The 
temple  of  Ismenian  Apollo  rises  anew  on  the  sacred  height 
now  in  our  presence  ;  it  shows  the  white  columns  in  soft 
movement  around  the  holy  shrine  out  of  which  well  forth 
the  strains  of  the  God  of  music.  Such  a  result  has  come 
out  of  dissonant  Thebes,  the  fierce  dualism  has  vanished  ; 
now  you  may  understand  why  Cadmus,  the  fatal  stranger, 
was  wedded  to  Harmonia,  the  daughter  of  Zeus. 


XL  FROM  THEBES  TO  LEBEDEIA. 

We  must  get  up  early,  if  we  wish  to  make  the  present 
trip  in  one  day,  at  our  customary  gait.  For  we  cannot 
think  of  hurrying  through  this  classic  landscape,  as  if  we 
had  on  our  hands  a  piece  of  pressing  business.  Much  is 
there  on  our  way  to  be  looked  at  with  leisure  ;  therefore 
about  an  hour  before  sunrise  we  slide  out  of  the  door  of 
the  wineshop  -into  the  street  still  dark,  and  grope  along 
down  the  Theban  hill  into  the  Megalos  Dromos,  or  Great 
Road  which  leads  to  Lebedeia.  We  pass  by  Dirke,  not 
now  radiant  with  the  sun  glancing  over  her  waters,  but 
wrapped  in  a  Stygian  cloak  ;  well  it  is  thus,  for  she  must 
not  detain  us  to-day.  Cotton  wagons  are  already  moving 
with  slow  rumble  over  the  highway  ;  the  burdened  donkey 
trudges  on  through  the  dark,  all  invisible  except  the  ears 
which  still  move  backwark  and  forward ;  dogs  rush  out 


238  A   WALK  7/Y  HELLAS. 

at  you,  but  you  must  keep  in  hand  the  protecting  stone 
which  they  have  the  power  of  seeing  by  night  as  well  as 
by  day. 

But  the  Dawn  has  now  come,  suddenly,  silently  —  still 
here  she  is,  softly  throwing  her  cream-colored  mantle  over 
the  mountains.  Aurora  is  indeed  a  light  stepper  ;  nobody 
ever  beheld  her  face,  only  her  shadowy  white  folds  trail- 
ing behind  can  be  seen  after  she  has  already  darted  by 
you.  During  some  wink  of  the  eye  she  came  and  went ; 
I  wake  up  of  a  sudden  to  observe  her  already  flown  far  to 
the  West.  But  she  has  left  her  blessing ;  at  her  touch  all 
forms  begin  to  free  themselves  of  darkness  and  grow  dis- 
tinct. The  wagons  roll  by  now  visible ;  ask  the  drivers 
how  far  to  Lebedeia.  The  first  one  will  say,  ten  hours  ; 
the  second,  nine ;  the  third,  noticing  the  sharp  gait  of  the 
pedestrian  in  the  morning  freshness,  will  answer:  Thus 
you  will  make  it  in  eight  hours.  All  of  them  pronounce 
the  name  of  the  town  Lebedeia  throwing  the  accent  for- 
ward to  the  last  syllable,  in  Romaic  fashion. 

The  twilight  of  the  morning  seems  to  hover  longest 
around  yonder  hill  off  to  the  right;  you  can  notice  it 
wrapped  in  a  fine-woven  shroud  of  haze,  while  the  plain 
about  it  reposes  in  clearest  sunlight.  You  are  continually 
coming  nearer  to  it,  still  the  dim  film  of  Dawn  refuses  to 
reveal  distinctly  the  summit.  That  is  the  mountain  of  the 
Sphinx,  she  who  gave  the  riddle  which  was  solved  by 
Oedipus,  being  still  to-day  somewhat  wrapped  in  haze. 
After  its  solution,  says  the  legend,  she  cast  herself  down 
from  her  eminence  and  perished ;  when  her  secret  had 
been  guessed,  she  could  no  longer  exist.  But  approach 
the  mountain  and  look  up  with  sharpened  vision  ;  you  will 
still  see  the  face  of  a  woman  there  in  the  rock  gazing  in- 
tently upon  the  waters  of  lake  Copais.  Then  she  has  not 
cast  herself  down  but  remains  high  up  there,  with  her  old 
riddle  for  you  and  me  as  well  as  for  Oedipus  —  which 
riddle  we  too  must  solve  at  the  peril  of  our  existence. 
With  rude  stone  features  she  gazes  into  the  mirror  of  the 
reedy  Copaic  waters,  trying  to  behold  some  image  of  her- 
self therein,  one  thinks.  That  seems  to  have  been  the 
old  problem :  to  see  her  own  visage,  to  find  out  what  she 


FROM  THEBES   TO  LEBEDEIA.  239 

is  herself.  Very  difficult  indeed  it  is,  O  Sphinx,  for  thee 
to  behold  thy  face  in  the  unsteady  and  often  slimy  surface 
of  Copaic  slough;  still  on  sunny,  windless  days  thou 
mayest  witness  some  dim  image,  which,  however,  vanishes 
with  the  first  strong  breath  of  air  among  the  reeds.  Gaze 
on  —  thousands  of  years,  I  prophesy,  must  sweep  over 
thee  before  thou  canst  fully  behold  thyself  reflected  in  the 
transparent  crystal  at  thy  feet.  Another  Oedipus,  many 
others  must  pass  and  give  some  answer  to  thy  question 
ere  thy  foundations  of  rock  will  tremble,  and  thou  wilt 
precipitate  thyself  from  thy  altitude  to  the  common  level 
of  the  earth.  —  We  must  move  on,  and  leave  the  Sphinx 
still  gazing  down  into  the  waters  with  the  thin  veil  of  haze 
slightly  drawn  over  the  stony  face ;  there  you  too  may 
behold  it  in  your  journey. 

But  on  the  left  we  glance  over  the  ridge  with  a  different 
kind  of  feeling.  For  behind  there  we  recollect  that  an- 
cient Thespia  lay,  from  whose  ruins  still  comes  a  fresh 
breath  of  Panhellenic  patriotism.  With  Plataea  it  refused 
to  give  earth  and  water,  the  s}rmbol  of  submission,  to  the 
Persian;  its  name  appears  in  the  two  great  muster-rolls, 
the  legendary  and  historical,  of  Greece  against  the  Asiatic. 
Nor  must  we  fail  to  do  our  share  in  correcting  the  in  justice 
of  fame  ;  700  of  its  citizens,  though  dismissed,  refused  to 
leave  Leonidas  at  Themopylae,  and  perished  with  him 
thei-e ;  yet  those  Thespians,  with  equal  heroism  and 
greater  devotion,  seem  always  to  be  forgotten  in  the  glory 
of  their  fellow  combatants,  the  300  Spartans.  But  we 
shall  not  forget  them,  the  brave  men,  as  we  look  upon 
their  land;  nor  shall  we  pass  over  those  1,800  survivors 
of  the  little  town  who  came  to  the  Greek  camp  to  fight  at 
Plataea,  though  their  homes  had  been  plundered  and 
burnt  by  the  enemy,  and  though  they  in  consequence  of 
their  losses  were  too  poor  to  purchase  equipments ;  still 
they  came  with  undiminished  fortitude  to  take  part  in  the 
battle,  without  armor,  determined  to  be  present  at  any 
rate.  Such  was  one  vein  of  the  golden  character  anciently 
to  be  found  in  Thespia. 

But  not  because  of  its  glory  in  war  would  I  go  there,  if 
I  were  the  ancient  traveler,  but  to  behold  the  masterpiece 


240  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS, 

of  Praxiteles,  the  statue  of  the  God  Eros  set  up  and 
worshiped  in  Thespia.  Thither  in  antiquity  many  pil- 
grims flocked  to  see  the  Divinity  of  Love  in  his  supreme 
manifestation ;  thither  many  of  us  would  go  now  to  catch 
a  glimpse  of  his  true  features,  or  perchance  to  conciliate 
him  in  some  desperate  venture.  Nor  should  we  forget 
upon  this  spot  the  stratagem  of  Thespian  Phryne  beloved 
of  Praxiteles,  who  offered  her  the  choice  of  his  statues. 
But  she  wanted  the  best,  and  he  refused  to  tell  her  which  he 
thought  was  the  best,  till  one  day  she  started  the  shout 
that  his  house  was  on  lire  and  his  works  perishing ;  then 
he  uttered  an  anxious  cry  for  his  Eros,  whereupon  Phryne 
chose  that.  Here  she  dedicated  the  beautiful  image,  in 
this  her  native  town,  after  a  life  devoted  to  the  God, 
deeming,  in  a  way  strange  to  our  modern  consciousness, 
that  even  her  vocation  was  not  without  "some  gleams  of 
divine  influence  and  participation.  4p 

To-day  we  are  hardly  allowed  to  speak  of  this  power  as 
a  God,  as  the  ancients  did ;  it  is,  however,  a  power  still 
felt,  divinely  felt.  Man's  being  is  twisted  together  out 
of  many  strands,  some  dark,  some  bright;  but  the 
brightest  strand  is  that  contributed  by  Eros.  In  fact  life 
is  insipid,  utterly  prosaic,  if  it  be  not  flavored  in  some 
way  by  his  fond  presence ;  from  him  still  springs  the 
youth,  the  poetry  of  existence.  Unaccountably  he  winds 
through  and  colors  all  our  actions  as  well  as  sayings ; 
nought  is  sweeter  even  in  our  worn  days  than  a  true  ut- 
terance of  him  either  in  word  or  deed.  It  is  no  wonder 
then,  that  in  the  olden  time  admiring  crowds  came  to 
Thespia,  just  to  behold  Eros  in  his  highest  revelation ; 
thither  we  too  would  go  with  joy  to  see  such  a  conception 
looking  out  from  the  marble. 

Xor  should  we  fail  to  hunt  up  in  the  Thespian  territory 
that  spring  which  punished  the  fair  youth  Narcissus,  who 
despised  the  might  of  Eros  ;  looking  into  the  clear  waters 
he  saw  his  own  face,  and  fell  so  deeply  in  love  with  it  that 
he  wasted  away  to  death.  Such  was  the  just  penalty  in- 
flicted by  Eros  upon  the  youth  who  contemned  the  divine 
gift,  for  he  who  cannot  love,  is  smitten  with  a  desperate 
self-love,  in  which  he  pines  away  to  some  miserable  end. 


FROM   THEBES   TO  LEBEDEIA.  241 

Such,  at  least,  would  seem  to  be  the  warning  of  the  God, 
transmitted  in  his  legend ;  such  too  is  that  wonderful 
spring  mirroring  some  inner  as  well  as  outer  visage  of  the 
person  who  gazes  into  its  depths.  To  it  you  and  I  would 
now  go,  were  we  certain  of  finding  it,  and  look  upon  its 
glassy  waters,  without  danger  from  the  image  therein  re- 
flected, I  am  sure. 

Thespia  was  indeed  with  justice  a  favorite  resort  of 
Love's  pilgrim  anciently;  three  statues  of  marble  stood 
there  —  we  may  think  of  them  as  standing  side  by  side  — 
which  must  have  been  the  whole  revelation  of  this  theme. 
There  was  first  the  goddess-mother,  Aphrodite  herself, 
queen  of  Love  and  Beauty  among  the  Immortals ;  then 
came  her  son,  Eros,  not  a  babe  but  a  youth  in  whom  the 
mother  shows  all  her  might,  and  communicates  it  to  men  ; 
finally  there  was  the  mortal  form  Phryne,  in  whom  the 
divine  fire  was  most  perfectly  manifested  —  she  who  was 
loved  by  the  artist  himself,  and  through  whom  he  was  led 
up  into  the  ideal  world  of  his  Art.  Such  was  the  trilogy 
of  Love  composed  by  Praxiteles  and  possessed  by  the 
Thespians,  for  which  he  above  all  sculptors  was  best 
gifted,  since  the  point  wherein  his  style  culminates  is  to 
express  the  honeyed  languor,  the  dulcet  pains  which  come 
from  Love's  early  wound.  Strange  old  town  to  have  such 
a  worship  filling  the  hearts  of  its  people,  and  harmoni- 
ously regulating  their  lives !  Yet  no  enervation  seems  to 
have  resulted,  as  one  might  think,  but  the  most  intense 
energy  in  warlike  deeds  could  be  aroused  there  upon  oc- 
casion. Once  more  call  up  those  three  sculptured  shapes, 
all  seeking  to  reveal  Love  to  men  and  to  attune  their  lives 
to  its  sweet  concord.  Nor  was  this  worship  a  foreign 
one,  introduced  from  abroad,  but  it  came  down  from  time 
immemorial ;  for  the  oldest  statue  of  Eros  there  was 
simply  a  white  stone,  hardly  more  than  a  primitive  fetich. 
The  special  character  of  Thespia  must  have  been  chiefly 
moulded  as  well  as  expressed  by  this  deity. 

But  there  was  another  worship  in  this  town  which  ought 
to  be  mentioned.  We  shall  not  wonder  when  we  learn 
that  the  Muses  were  specially  honored  at  Thespia,  for 
the  Sisters  Nine  always  follow  in  the  train  of  Eros  and 

16 


242  A    WALK  iy  HELLAS. 

never  cease  to  sing  the  strain  dictated  by  him.  Love  in- 
deed is  the  chief  inspirer  of  poetry  and  the  chief  theme 
thereof;  it  first  makes  existence  musical  and  then  de- 
mands some  musical  utterance  of  existence ;  in  one  or 
other  of  its  manifold  forms  it  gives  the  glow,  the  rapture, 
as  well  as  the  tuneful  movement  of  the  great  works  of  lit- 
erature. If  we  get  into  the  heart  of  them,  we  shall  find 
this  emotional  thrill  of  Love  ;  with  it  human  speech  will 
throb  in  unison,  being  thrown  thereby  into  the  rhythmical 
cadence  of  song.  So  we  may  rejoice  in  the  wa}rs  of  the 
old  Thespians  who  did  not  stop  with  the  worship  of 
Eros,  but  added  the  Muses  to  express  him  worthily,  and 
to  reveal  truly  his  musical  nature.  Take  him  away,  little 
work  would  be  left  for  the  Nine  Sisters,  in  fact  one  Sister 
could  easily  do  all  of  it. 

Moreover  there  was  at  Thespia  a  great  festival  sacred 
to  the  Muses,  celebrated  with  due  splendor  and  with  a 
mighty  outpouring  of  song.  For  it  seems  to  have  mainly 
consisted  of  a  musical  contest  in  which  all  the  poets  of 
Greece  might  take  part  in  competing  for  the  prize.  Thus 
the  singer  came  and  sang  in  praise  of  the  Muses,  in  praise 
of  his  own  Art,  which  gives  the  tuneful  utterance,  where- 
by all  Thespia  must  have  been  filled  in  those  days. 
Therefore  the  Thespians  were  the  guardians  of  the  shrine 
of  the  Muses  on  Mount  Helicon,  to  which  we  have  now 
come ;  here  is  the  mountain  on  our  left.  So  we  wonder 
at  the  life  of  man  in  ancient  Thespia  filled  with, the  wor- 
ship of  Eros  and  the  Muses  ;  a  delicious  existence,  one 
imagines  it  to  have  been,  overflowing  with  Love  and 
Music.  More  than  a  thousand  years  the  town  lasted,  we 
know,  adoring  its  melodious  deities,  and  sending  up  de- 
lightful strains  which  still  to-day  seem  to  be  lingering 
around  Helicon. 

Thus  one  seeks  to  make  the  old  Thespian  character  rise 
from  its  ruins,  and  take  on  some  definite  shape  ;  for  even 
ancient  writers  have  assured  us  that  every  town  in  Greece 
had  a  character  of  its  own,  distinguishing  it  pointedly 
from  all  of  its  neighbors.  The  leading  bad  trait  of  each 
important  Boeotian  town  is  given  by  an  old  traveler, 
Dikaearchus  ;  each  had  its  controlling  vice  as  well  as  dis- 


FROM    THEBES   TO  LEBEDEIA.  243 

tinct  virtue.  As  we  look  around  ourselves  and  observe 
the  distant  landscape  with  its  ranges  of  hills  running  cross- 
wise and  lengthwise,  we  remark  again  how  under  our  very 
e}Te  this  plain  of  Boeotia  divides  itself  into  several  lesser 
plains,  each  of  which  is  centered  in  its  own  community. 
A  self-contained  life  is  possible  here  ;  autonomy  is  printed 
on  the  face  of  Greece  everywhere,  spelled  out  in  rude 
strong  letters  by  the  mountains  and  valleys.  Whenever 
we  cross  a  ridge,  we  may  always  say :  this  is  a  distinct 
part  of  Boeotia  with  its  own  character,  with  its  own  towns 
boiling  over  in  fierce  energy  anciently ;  each  is  seeking 
primarily  to  be  itself  and  nought  else.  Yet  there  was 
too  a  Boeotian  league,  we  know ;  there  was  a  common 
Boeotian  principle  in  them  all,  which  had  to  be  adum- 
brated, though  dimly,  in  some  institution. 

Villages  appear  to  the  right  and  left ;  some  of  them  seem 
to  be  lying  far  out  amid  the  reeds  of  the  swamp,  others  are 
placidly  perched  upon  the  hill- sides;  their  different 
characters  one  may  to  a  degree  imagine  from  the  situa- 
tion. We  pass  by  ancient  Onchestus,  and  do  not  forget 
its  distinctive  mark,  which  was  the  temple  and  grove  of 
earth-shaking  Neptune,  celebrated  in  many  a  Greek  book 
from  the  Iliad  down.  But  a  touch  of  anxiety  begins  to 
trouble  the  mood  within  as  the  overcast  sky  darkens  the 
landscape  without ;  clouds  are  resting  upon  the  mountains 
and  sullenly  look  down  at  the  pedestrian,  threatening  him 
with  a  dash  of  rain.  Zeus,  the  cloud-compeller  is  up 
there,  brewing  another  storm ;  but  I  pray  him  to  hold  up 
the  showers  in  those  deep  fleecy  folds  of  his  celestial 
drapery  till  I  reach  Lebedeia.  That  one  rainy  trip  you 
may  recollect ;  it  was  enough  for  me,  and  for  you  too. 

One  name  lingers  in  the  mind  upon  this  road,  that  of 
Hesiod  the  Poet,  and  you  often  ask  yourself :  what  pro- 
duced him  here  ?  His  birthplace  lies  up  the  hill  to  the 
left,  ancient  Ascra,  still  inhabited  but  producing  no 
Hesiods.  I  met  a  peasant  boy  at  the  side  of  the  road 
ploughing:  "  Point  out  Zagora  to  me  " — such  is  the 
modern  name  for  Ascra,  manifestly  corrupted  from  the 
ancient  one.  His  reply  was,  What  are  you  going  to  do 
at  Zagora?  Are  you  a  didaskali,  a  schoolmaster?  Such 


244  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

was  his  view  of  the  stranger  asking  for  the  birthplace  of 
Hesiod. 

But  we  have  already  arrived  at  grassy  Haliartus,  not 
now  so  grassy,  probably  as  it  was  in  Homer's  time, 
but  watered  still  with  abundant  streams  running  through 
its  meadows ;  one  of  these  streams  we  shall  cross  and 
enter  the  wineshop  where  there  is  a  chance  for  a  luncheon 
with  recinato.  One  half  of  our  journey  to-day  is  done, 
yet  it  is  forenoon  still ;  more  leisurely  we  can  make  the 
rest  of  the  trip.  We  may  note,  too,  that  the  sun  has 
come  out  amid  the  clouds,  Zeus  has  heard  our  petition 
and  will  not  be  angry  to-day.  Pleasant  are  the  meads 
and  rills  of  Haliartus  flowing  full  of  ancient  legend ; 
fresh  too  is  the  breath  of  Greek  patriotism  which  wafts 
over  its  pastures ;  that  ancient  half-burnt  temple  set  on 
fire  by  Persian  invaders,  stood  here,  which  the  citizens 
would  not  rebuild,  but  left  standing  over  600  years  at 
least,  a  continual  reminder  of  the  eternal  struggle  of 
Greece  against  the  Orient. 

Emerging  from  behind  a  low  hill  we  again  come  to  lake 
Copais,  or  swamp,  as  it  ought  to  be  called,  full  of  reeds 
and  grass  ;  far  off  toward  Orchonienus  the  narrow  stream 
of  the  river  Kephissus,  marked  by  the  absence  of  marshy 
vegetation,  flows  sluggishly  through  the  standing  waters. 
Around  the  edge  of  the  morass  we  now  skirt  for  miles  on 
the  semilunar  bend  ;  sometimes  the  shallow  water  sweeps 
up  and  touches  the  bed  of  the  highway  at  our  feet.  In 
antiquity  we  must  suppose  a  different  aspect,  for  this 
whole  swamp  was  drained,  and  thousands  of  acres  of  the 
best  land  in  Greece  was  redeemed  for  cultivation.  Still 
the  old  catabothra  or  underground  drains  can  be  seen, 
tunneled  through  the  rock  in  part,  but  now  choked  up ; 
even  this  rubbish  from  her  great  ancient  works  modern 
Greece  has  not  yet  been  able  to  remove.  These  drains 
seem  to  have  been  made  in  a  fabulous  era,  though  not  by 
any  means  fabulous  things ;  for  yonder  they  exist,  an 
astonishing  feat  of  engineering  to-day.  But  these  reeds 
we  shall  not  wholly  condemn,  for  of  them  was  made  the 
ancient  flute  which  gave  the  rhythmical  beat  to  the  chor- 
uses of  Pindar.  Thus  even  in  reedy  Copais  there  is 


FROM   THEBES   TO  LEBEDEIA.  245 

music,  provided  the  mail  may  be  found  who  can  extract 
it. 

Here  then  we  have  passed  a  new  ridge  and  behold  a  new 
plain  ;  therewith  rises  a  new  question  which  is,  however, 
but  the  old  one;  who  shall  control  the  plain?  In  like 
manner  we  crossed  the  Theban  ridge  from  Attica,  and 
the  Plataean  ridge  from  Thebes  ;  now  we  enter  the  Copaic 
plain,  with  the  same  fierce  question,  anciently  to  be  set- 
tled by  desperate  warfare.  Thus  our  Greece  is  individ- 
ualized ;  this  plain  too  will  give,  with  its  adjacent  swamp, 
a  different  character  to  its  dwellers.  Look  across  the 
water,  yonder  isOrchomenus,  the  abode  of  the  Graces ;  still 
its  white  dwellings  seem  to  rest  gracefully  on  the  hill-side 
above  the  surface  of  the  lake.  Once  she  was  mistress  of 
this  valley,  a  wise  one,  if  we  may  judge  by  her  works ;  but 
at  her  ascendancy  every  town  squirmed,  fell  into  resist- 
ance, loving  its  own  autonomy  at  least,  though  not  so  in- 
tensely that  of  its  neighbors.  Such  was  the  education  of 
Greece  —  each  man  must  be  a  hero,  and  each  town  the 
mother  of  heroes.  Every  person  was  of  importance  in 
such  a  community,  he  was  never  lost  in  an  untold  Orien- 
tal multitude.  To  such  a  consciousness  does  his  training 
lead  —  to  make  him  a  complete  individual. 

Often  one  hears  a  sigh  for  the  political  unity  of  the 
Greek  cities  that  the  fair  Hellenic  flower  be  preserved. 
No,  that  could  not  be  ;  if  she  had  had  within  her  the  germ 
of  unity,  far  different  would  she  have  been  —  indeed  she 
would  not  have  been  Greece  at  all.  The  conditions  of  her 
beauty  are  the  sources  of  her  decay ;  the  flower  would 
not  bloom,  if  it  did  not  wither.  Achilles,  the  heroic  type, 
of  surpassing  form,  fleetness,  and  strength,  is  fated  to  die 
early ;  so  dees  Alexander  the  historical  Greek  hero.  A 
strong  central  government  for  Greece !  not  at  all.  Her 
glory  is  that  she  gave  a  free  and  full  development  to  the 
individual,  untrammeled  by  the  fewest  external  restraints. 
Never  has  man  upon  the  whole  attained  to  such  a  musical 
existence,  and  made  of  himself  such  a  harmonious  physi- 
cal and  spiritual  being  —  one  who  in  himself  combined  all 
without  dissonance,  reflected,  we  may  say,  the  Universe. 
Exemplars  they  must  furnish  to  the  race  eternally,  for 


246  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

they  were  whole  men.  Now  man  has  become  special  and 
a  specialist,  an  infinitesimal  part  of  the  colossal  organism 
around  him.  Yet  we  must  not  forget  the  exception  even 
in  Greece,  namely,  those  mighty  individuals  who  at  last 
became  discordant  with  their  country. 

But  there  is  no  discord  now ;  in  tuneful  company  the 
traveler  marches  along  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  for  it 
is  Helicon.  It  is  a  mountain  delightful  as  of  old ;  to-day 
it  has  the  same  friendly  appearance  which  was  anciently 
praised  so  much.  Its  soil  was  the  most  productive  of  any 
mountain  in  Greece,  we. read:  wild  fruits  grew  there  in 
abundance,  and  to  all  its  products  it  gave  the  sweetest 
flavor ;  herbs  and  roots  which  were  elsewhere  injurious  to 
man,  lost  upon  Helicon  their  native  poison ;  even  noxious 
serpents  became  harmless  upon  its  meadows.  One  can 
well  believe  that  it  has  some  such  power  to-day ;  it  draws 
all  care,  all  biting  anxiety  from  the  heart,  as  one  looks  up 
at  its  happy  summits  sporting  through  sunshine  and  clouds. 
The  touch  of  the  Muses  it  has  still,  though  their  voices 
have  fled  from  its  dells.  Nature  is  essentially  the  same 
to-day  on  Helicon  as  of  old  ;  that  wonderful  drug  Nepen- 
the, which  was  .the  gift  of  Helen,  she  administers  through 
the  breathing  of  the  air.  Thus  we  wind  round  the  Heli- 
conian crescent  having  Copais  at  our  feet,  with  breezes 
slightly  rustling  amid  its  reeds  and  rushes. 

Nature,  the  gazing  traveler  often  repeats  to  himself,  re- 
mains the  same  to-day  on  Helicon  that  she  was  of  old ; 
but  where  are  those  other  objects  of  beauty  which  once 
skirted  the  lake  ?  For  many  temples  were  built  here  look- 
ing off  over  the  waters  ;  and  the  ancient  pedestrian  always 
had  one  and  perchance  several  of  them  in  his  view,  cheer- 
ing him  forward  to  their  inclosure  with  a  mild  joy. 
Statues,  too,  there  were,  wrought  by  famous  masters ;  for 
did  not  those  old  Greeks  need  in  daily  life,  amid  their 
toil,  art  as  much  as  bread  ?  Particularly  Athena  seems 
to  have  been  honored  here ;  the  Goddess  is  reported  to 
have  appeared  at  one  of  her  temples  with  Medusa  head, 
and  turned  the  priestess  to  stone  who  beheld  the  awful 
visage.  There  the  stone  woman  stood  and  had  an  altar ; 
daily  an  attendant  put  fire  on  her  altar  and  cried  out : 


FEOM  THEBES  TO  LE  BE  DEI  A.       247 

"  lodamia  lives  and  asks  for  fire."  O  lodamia,  why  did 
the  Goddess  turn  thee  to  stone  ?  Yet  thy  stony  statue  was 
thought  to  live,  and  being  of  cold  material,  to  cry  out  for 
fire,  wherewith  to  warm  itself.  A  wonderful  statue  in- 
deed, not  easy  to  be  hewn  out  of  speechless  marble,  yet 
possible  for  some  old  Greek  artist,  who  could  make  stone 
speak. 

Nor  must  we  omit  the  fountains  which  gushed  from  the 
sides  of  Helicon ;  we  are  continually  passing  their  waters 
and  shall  always  stop  to  listen  for  a  moment  to  their 
music.  These  Heliconian  fountains  have  had  a  strangely 
tuneful  destiny ;  the}'  have  become  the  types  of  poetic  ut- 
terance for  all  time  seemingly,  still  they  are  welling  forth 
melodiously  from  the  depths  of  the  mountain.  So  the 
streams  of  poesy  rise  from  their  deep  sources,  like  Agan- 
ippe from  Helicon,  which  made  musical  whoever  drank  of 
its  waters  ;  like  Hippocrene,  bubbling  up  here  to-day  from 
the  track  imprinted  by  the  hoof  of  the  flying  horse,  Pe- 
gasus, and  overflowing  the  woody  dells  with  clear  melody, 
as  the  steed  mounts  heavenward ;  like  Tilphousa,  sweet 
warbler,  near  whose  stream  Apollo  thought  of  establish- 
ing his  temple  instead  of  taking  Delphic  Castalia.  All 
these  fountains  are  still  on  Helicon  and  we  may  reach 
down  and  drink  of  their  waters  ;  but  the  fanes  built  over 
them  have  disappeared,  the  nymphs  have  fled.  Nature  is 
still  here,  but  she  no  longer  calls  forth  the  deification  of 
herself  into  art.  The  images  of  marble  are  gone  never  to 
be  restored  by  mortal  hand ;  but  that  other  image  of  Hel- 
icon, its  spiritual  image  with  all  its  fountains  leaping 
forth  to  the  sunlight,  endures  and  will  endure ;  human 
speech  has  chiseled  out  new  statues  of  its  deities  made  of 
the  substance  t>f  man's  very  soul. 

But  along  yon  Heliconian  heights  was  witnessed  in 
antiquity  a  worship  which  characterizes  Greece  better  than 
any  thing  else  ;  there  was  the  sanctuary  of  the  Muses,  the 
givers  of  harmonious  utterance  of  every  kind,  the  inspir- 
ers  also  of  harmonious  lives.  The  musical  gift  which  is 
heard  not  only  in  human  speech,  but  subtly  orders  and 
attunes  Nature,  was  there  the  special  object  of  adoration  ; 
the  whole  mountain  was  a  sacred  place ;  a  large  grove 


248  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

was  filled  with  shrines  and  statues,  through  which  one 
passed  and  beheld  the  revelation  of  this  fairest  side  of 
existence.  There  was  first  the  holy  fount  Aganippe  at 
the  entrance,  whose  lustral  waters  purified  of  discord 
the  worshiper  as  he  passed  in  ;  then  were  the  images  of  the 
Nine  Muses  wrought  by  famous  artists,  filling  the  be- 
holder with  infinite  harmonies  which  were  to  transform 
him  into  a  musical  being  in  thought,  word,  action.  Nor 
was  the  nurse  of  the  Muses,  Eupheme  the  Sweet  Voice,  ab- 
sent from  the  group,  though  they  were  daughters  of  Zeus 
the  Highest  and  of  Memory  who  brings  to  the  present  the 
great  deed  of  the  olden  time.  Not  merely  by  poets  were 
they  addressed  in  prayer,  as  in  our  day,  but  also  by  the 
common  people,  by  the  humblest  man,  since  he  sought  to 
make  himself  a  tuneful  note,  though  small,  in  the  har- 
mony of  the  Universe. 

Next  were  the  images  of  famous  bards,  those  who  had 
been  breathed  upon  by  the  Muses,  and  whom  they  had 
gifted  with  musical  utterance ;  these  bards  were  indeed 
the  first  teachers  of  the  race,  taming  wild  men  to  the 
sounds  of  concord  by  voice  and  instrument.  Linus  was 
there,  whose  name  goes  far  back  into  fable,  and  is  coupled 
with  the  earliest  fonn  of  song ;  he  is  said  to  have  been 
slain  by  Apollo  when  he  had  reached  so  great  excellence 
as  to  equal  a  God  in  his  strain.  Thamyris,  the  blind 
bard,  stood  there  touching  his  shattered  lyre,  the  result 
of  defeat  in  a  contest  with  the  Muses ;  Arion  was  present, 
still  perched  upon  that  dolphin  which  he  had  charmed  by 
song  to  bear  him  safely  through  the  waves  of  the  sea  to 
land ;  finally  Orpheus  was  there,  the  greatest  of  all  these 
fabulous  bards,  surrounded  by  brazen  and  sculptured 
animals  under  the  spell  of  his  strain  amid  the  listening 
woods ;  thus  Nature  is  subdued  by  the  poet's  voice,  and 
becomes  musical,  when  she  finds  expression  in  him.  Nor 
should  we  forget  the  tomb  of  Orpheus,  upon  which  the 
Thracian  nightingales  built  their  nests  and  hatched  their 
brood,  for  thus  the  young  birds  sang  more  sweetly. 
Similar  was  the  case  of  the  Thracian  shepherd  who  at 
mid-day  fell  asleep  on  the  grave  of  Orpheus  and  at  once 
began  to  sing  in  so  loud  and  sweet  a  strain  that  all 


FBOM  THEBES  TO  LEBEDEIA.       249 

the  shepherds  and  plowmen  from  neighboring  districts 
flocked  to  listen  to  the  song.  Of  that  shepherd  we  may 
think  as  the  first  pastoral  poet,  the  first  Theocritus. 
Thus  in  many  a  luscious  bit  of  legend  has  that  harmonious 
world  come  down  to  us,  setting  us  too  in  a  soft  vibration 
to  its  notes.  Helicon  represents  it  still ;  along  her 
summits  all  nature  is  attuned  to  a  hymn  and  subdued  by 
some  melodious  spell;  trees,  animals,  man  fall  into  the 
sweet  measured  rhythm  sent  from  the  Muses. 

But  no  certain  word  of  these  ancient  Heliconian  bards 
has  come  down  to  us  ;  only  concerning  their  power  and  ex- 
cellence do  we  hear  a  few  fitful  strains  of  fable,  which  we 
may  well  believe  in  the  true  sense.  Now  we  come,  how- 
ever, to  the  central  image  in  this  sanctuary,  altogether  the 
most  significant  figure  here  —  it  is  the  poet  Hesiod.  His 
voice  has  reached  us  quite  full  and  resonant ;  still  we  may 
hear  it  echoing  through  the  dells  of  Helicon.  Look  upon 
that  face  of  his  which  has  possibly  preserved  some  of  the 
features  of  his  statue  standing  here  of  old  ;  Helicon  cul- 
minates in  him.  One  looks  up  at  the  summits  and  asks : 
How  did  ye  produce  a  poet?  In  what  way  did  ye  mould 
his  character?  Thus  the  traveler  winds  around  the 
mountains,  praying  Mnemosyne  to  call  back  for  him  some 
strains  of  the  old  bard,  and  to  attune  him  to  their  key- 
note. 

Here,  then,  he  arose  and  sang  his  song — a  song  of 
significance  to-day.  A  hard,  unbending,  somewhat  crab- 
bed genius  ;  still  a  genius,  gifted  with  Heliconian  dower. 
That  old  poem  of  his,  called  Works  and  Days,  is  a  genuine 
Boeotian  product;  anciently  on  Helicon  it  was  shown, 
written  upon  a  leaden  tablet.  Many  a  harmonious  pulsa- 
tion it  has,  though  at  times  rude  enough  ;  still  better,  it 
has  a  philosophy  of  life  and  its  own  view  of  the  govern- 
ment of  the  world  ;  thus  it  must  have  gone  deep  into  the 
hearts  and  actions  of  men.  It  strikes  at  first  an  exceed- 
ingly discordant  note,  for  it  seems  to  imply  that  the  Gods 
who  are  to  be  worshiped  have  become  the  enemies  of  their 
worshipers.  A  woeful  view  of  the  world  is  that,  quite 
enough  to  fill  anybody  with  harsh  jangle  and  biting 
acidulous  utterance.  The  story  of  Prometheus,  the  friend 


250  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

of  man,  who  has  covertly  to  steal  fire  from  Zeus ;  the 
myth  of  Pandora,  the  beautiful  woman,  sent  as  an  evil 
upon  man,  express  the  hostility  of  the  Supreme  Ruler ; 
the  poet  might  as  well  cry  out :  the  Gods  are  our  enemies. 
A  melancholy  spectacle  indeed  is  man  when  he  has  fallen 
out  with  his  Gods. 

It  is  clear  that  the  old  poet  is  grappling  with  a  tough 
problem,  tough  still  for  us  to-day:  the  problem  of  the 
origin  of  evil.  Who  made  evil?  Who  permits  it ?  Zeus 
certainly,  if  he  be  the  Supreme  God  ;  a  thought  distract- 
ing, of  diabolical  dissonance  in  the  soul.  To  account  for 
its  beginning  Hesiod  has  given  two  legends,  that  of  Prome- 
theus, and  that  of  the  Five  Ages ;  both,  however,  go 
toward  the  Bad,  and  end  in  the  Bad  ;  the  poet  has  suffered 
evil,  much  evil ;  he  asks  how  it  came  to  be  and  finds  that 
it  is  by  the  will  of  the  Gods.  Then  he  is  unhappy ;  all 
men  are  unhappy  in  like  condition  of  mind ;  the  unhappy 
consciousness  it  may  be  called.  Not  a  poetical  mood  is 
this,  one  thinks,  not  a  harmonious  strain ;  still,  if  the 
poet  have  in  him  the  gift  of  healing  this  deep  disruption 
of  soul,  he  can  change  it  to  one  of  the  grandest  themes  of 
song. 

A  second  dissonance  heard  in  Hesiod.  in  strange  con- 
trast to  other  utterances  of  Greek  fable,  is  his  dislike  and 
contempt  for  women,  revealed  in  his  legend  of  Pandora 
and  in  several  bitter  outbursts.  He  connects  her  indeed 
with  the  origin  of  all  evil  in  the  world,  making  her  some- 
what similar  to  Eve  in  another  more  authoritative  book. 
Yet  she  cannot  apparently  be  got  rid  of,  so  the  old  surly 
poet  makes  some  scanty  provision  for  her  in  the  Family. 
Strange  that  he  too  should  carry  back  our  original  sin  to 
the  sexual  dualism,  which  he  would  like  to  abolish,  but 
does  not  see  his  way  clearly  thereto.  No  beautiful  Helen 
floats  before  his  imagination  the  worthy  cause  of  Trojan 
wars,  but  homely  Meg  is  his,  she  who  can  spin  and  grub. 
Far  different  is  Homer  who  has  placed  in  his  ideal  house- 
hold that  supreme  type  of  womanhood  Penelope,  and 
limned  many  an  outline  of  fair  maidens  alongside  of  his 
heroes. 

However  not  woman  alone,    but  man  too  conies  in  for 


FROM  THESES   TO  LEBEDEIA.  251 

a  share  of  his  objurgation  —  nay,  his  own  brother  named 
Perses.  The  latter  has  spent  his  part  of  the  paternal  in- 
heritance in  riotous  living,  and  is  now  seeking  to  get  by 
foul  dealing  that  of  the  poet ;  he  has  even  corrupted  the 
judges  to  decide  in  favor  of  his  unjust  claim ;  it  is  a  most 
unbrotherly  act.  So  the  poet  addresses  advice  and  re- 
buke to  the  erring  brother  —  good  advice,  sharp  rebuke; 
this  is  the  frame-work  in  which  the  whole  poem  is  set. 
Also  the  town  Ascra,  where  he  lives  having  for  neighbors 
those  unrighteous  judges,  is  smartly  goaded  with  some 
passing  strokes:  "Wretched  town,  near  Helicon,  bad 
in  winter,  miserable  in  summer,  never  genial."  His  age, 
too,  is  the  iron  age,  glorious  ages  have  preceded  it,  but 
this  unhappy  age  is  left  for  him,  and  bitterly  he  laments 
his  lot :  "Would  that  I  had  not  mingled  with  this  race  of 
men,  but  had  been  born  before  or  died  afterward.  It  is 
indeed  the  iron  race,  and  never  will  they  cease  from  toil 
and  wretchedness."  Thus  our  Ascraean  pipe  gets 
scrannel,  grating  its  squeaky  tune,  and  all  Helicon  hisses 
in  shrill  discord. 

The  sullen  old  grumbler,  after  venting  his  spleen,  will 
change  his  note,  and  pass  on  to  tell  of  agriculture ;  what 
else  can  a  man  do  but  forget  himself  by  labor  in  such  a 
bad  world?  A  soured,  gnarled,  unbending  nature;  who 
could  help  being  thus  when  all  the  Gods  have  become  his 
enemies  ?  It  is  not  a  cheerful  state ;  woe  be  to  the  man 
who  has  fallen  out  with  his  Gods,  believing  in  their  power 
but  distrusting  their  goodness.  Such  a  person  must  be 
wretched  unless  he  in  some  wise  run  away  from  himself ; 
so  the  crabbed  but  defiant  Hesiod  will  turn  and  swink  in 
the  field  to  escape  from  his  unamiable  theology.  There- 
with we  are  oil  the  way  to  get  rid  of  the  world  of  hateful 
Gods  and  of  moral  disorder,  and  that  Hope  which  was  left 
in  the  cask  of  Pandora  as  the  last  solace  for  poor  mortal 
men,  begins  to  fill  the  breast  with  her  mild  illumination. 

It  would  therefore,  be  a  great  mistake  to  suppose  that 
the  poet  gives  no  solution  for  the  present  order  of  things. 
He  does,  and  in  this  lies  the  value  of  his  poem  for  men. 
The  Gods  have  hidden  the  means  of  living,  therefore  the 
human  being  who  eats  must  work.  Such  is  his  destiny 


252  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

written  upon  every  spot  of  earth —  work,  work.  For, 
says  the  poet,  if  a  man  in  one  day  could  get  enough  for  a 
whole  year,  then  would  the  rudder  be  laid  aside,  and  the 
labors  of  oxen  and  mules  would  cease  from  the  laud. 
Therefore  work,  work ;  every  human  being  must  have 
something  to  do ;  if  he  has  no  work,  then  he  has  no  busi- 
ness to  be,  soon  will  not  be,  by  decree  of  the  Gods.  In 
former  ages  men  lived  a  golden  life,  without  toil  and  care  ; 
the  earth  brought  forth  her  fruits  spontaneously,  and  he 
partook  of  them ;  there  was  no  wrong,  nothing  to  do 
wrong  for ;  but  in  this  age  the  jealous  Gods  have  laid  up- 
on mortals  the  hard  necessity  —  work,  work.  Nor  is  the 
compensation  of  work  absent ;  we  through  work  defeat 
the  spite  of  the  Gods  who  sent  upon  us  evil ;  we  bridge 
the  terrible  chasm  between  ourselves  and  the  world,  and 
even  get  the  better  of  the  divine  decree.  The  Gods 
themselves  are  conquered  by  work ;  their  hostility  turns 
into  a  blessing  by  work.  The  necessity,  nay  the  absolute 
worth  of  work  marks  the  deep  strong  touch  of  the  poet, 
who  therein  changes  from  a  discordant  grumbler  to  a  true 
singer,  and  rescues  men  from  a  world  of  ethical  confu- 
sion, elevating  them  into  a  tuneful  sphere.  Hence  he 
sings  of  Works  and  their  Times,  first  as  his  own  solution 
of  the  great  problem  of  evil,  secondly  as  advice  to  the 
erring  brother. 

And  that  brother  who  seeks  to  get  on  in  life  without 
work ;  nay  worse,  who  seeks  to  possess  others'  work  by 
fraud  and  by  bribing  judges  —  what  shall  be  done  with 
him  ?  Shall  we  work  and  let  him  riot  ?  No ;  and  here 
this  poem  of  Hesiod  introduces  the  second  principle  which 
supplements  work  and  overcomes  the  wrong  of  the  world. 
It  is  the  conception  of  Justice  —  Dike.  A  deep  unshaken 
faith  in  Justice  is  the  highest  attribute  of  the  poem ; 
though  the  Gods  fail,  still  there  is  Justice.  Here  she 
comes,  a  virgin  born  of  Jupiter,  illustrious,  worshipful 
among  the  Gods  of  Olympus  ;  she,  clad  in  the  viewless 
air,  comes  bringing  ill  to  wrong-doing  men  who  have  driven 
her  away  and  have  made  an  unrighteous  decision ;  irre- 
sistible is  her  course.  But  whoso  doth  not  transgress 
Justice,  for  these  the  city  blooms  and  the  people  are 


FROM  THEBES  TO  LEBEDEIA.       253 

prosperous  ;  peace  reigns  among  them,  nor  is  there  famine 
or  calamity,  but  happy  festivals.  The  earth  bears  for 
them  much  substance ;  on  the  mountain  stands  the  oak 
with  acorns  amid  its  branches  and  bees  in  its  trunk.  Thus 
the  poet  describes  the  glories  of  Justice,  with  the  deepest 
insight  into  its  character.  For  he  plainly  sees  Justice  to 
be  that  which  keeps  the  world  from  falling  into  chaos,  and 
he  has  stated  in  the  most  direct  manner  its  fundamental 
principle :  the  return  of  the  deed  upon  the  doer.  Listen  to 
him  :  Man  working  evil  to  another  is  working  evil  to  him- 
self, and  evil  counsel  is  worse  to  him  that  hath  devised  it. 

In  such  wise  with  rude  yet  mighty  words  he  announces 
the  supreme  law  of  the  ethical  world  and  smites  with  it  in 
Titanic  energy.  Well  might  that  brother  quake  with  se- 
cret terror  after  hearing  such  an  exposition,  for  the  intense 
faith  is  here  expressed  that  the  wicked  act  will  be  brought 
back  to  the  doer,  if  need  be  by  thrice  ten  thousand  de- 
mons, guardians  of  mortal  men,  avengers  of  wrong, 
hovering  in  misty  darkness  everywhere  over  the  earth. 
Oh,  Perses,  reform  thy  ways  ;  if  thou  wouldst  live  as  a  true 
man  in  this  world,  work,  work ;  then  be  just,  recognize 
the  work  of  thy  brother  as  fully  as  thine  own.  By  such 
conduct  we  shall  circumvent  the  spiteful  Gods ;  toil,  which 
they  sent  upon  us  as  a  curse,  will  change  through  Justice 
to  a  blessing  which  orders  and  upholds  the  Universe. 

Thus  the  Ascrsean  pipe  undergoes  a  change  and  now 
begins  to  discourse  harmoniously :  the  discordant  notes 
are  all  swallowed  up  in  sweet  melodious  utterance ;  the 
very  strength  of  the  former  dissonance  adds  to  the  depth 
and  intensity  of  the  new  harmony.  Helicon  grows  music- 
al again,  the  Sisters  Nine  return  to  their  abode,  and  we 
see  why  they,  handed  to  the  poet  the  laurel  branch,  hold- 
ing which  he  sang  his  strains.  Still  the  fierce  dissonance 
can  be  heard  whistling  through  his  song,  like  a  northern 
blast  through  sunshine.  But  you  come  to  love  the  rugged 
nature  with  its  adamantine  integrity  which  not  even  the 
spite  of  the  Gods  could  shake,  and  whose  harsh  features 
often  kindle  into  a  soft  glow  of  poesy  whenever  he  speaks 
of  Helicon  and  its  Muses. 

Such  is   the  purport  of  the  poem,  though  its  parts  be 


254  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

often  distorted  and  jumbled  together  at  hazard.  You  ob- 
tain a  strong  image  of  the  Boeotian  farmer  and  his  life ; 
a  character  is  here,  rude,  honest,  yet  thoughtful,  and  of 
granitic  toughness.  Amid  his  rustic  precepts  are  many 
poetical  gems  shining  with  their  earliest  unworn  lustre. 
He  tells  you  that  you  must  never  cross  a  stream  without 
praying  —  a  truly  Greek  instinct ;  nor  must  you  defile  the 
spring  or  running  brook  —  'tis  an  unholy  thing.  Beware, 
too,  of  Fama  or  Report,  she  is  a  goddess,  easy  to  excite, 
hard  to  calm  —  Goddess  is  the  report  which  many  mouths 
utter.  Most  genuine,  too,  is  the  connection  of  the  poem 
with  nature ;  it  hangs  from  her  as  fruit  from  the  branches 
of  the  tree ;  the  verses  seem  to  be  a  product  of  the  sea- 
sons, or  a  pendent  of  the  stars,  like  the  words  of  which 
they  sing.  There  is  no  artificial  time  measurer,  but  na- 
ture herself  calls  the  husbandman,  when  the  cuckoo  sings 
in  the  oak  foliage,  when  the  snail  climbs  shunning  the 
Pleiades,  when  the  cry  of  the  crane  is  heard  overhead, 
when  the  young  fig-leaf  is  as  large  as  the  crow's  foot ;  the 
stellar  sky  in  the  night  speaks  down  to  him,  from  strong 
Orion,  from  Arcturus  leaving  the  sacred  stream  of  Ocean. 
The  ox- track  full  of  rain  is  the  measure  of  the  rain- fall, 
and  early  precursor  of  science.  Bathe  your  hand  in 
crossing  a  brook,  otherwise  you  are  hated  of  the  Gods. 
Primitive  spontaneous  utterances  of  poesy  are  in  this  book, 
revealing  nature  as  she  was  looked  upon  by  the  new  fresh 
eye  of  the  young  world ;  yet  amid  the  green  branches  are 
dry  twigs  enough,  abstract  doctrines,  proverbs,  maxims 
of  prudence,  pointed  sharply  to  penetrate  the  thick  skull 
of  the  peasant,  especially  the  Boeotian  peasant.  Many  of 
the  poet's  views  incline  to  the  form  of  proverbs,  some 
bluntly  inculcating  the  homely  virtues,  others  rising  into 
a  sort  of  esoteric  vein ;  particularly  we  catch  breath  at 
that  quite  transcendental  one:  "Fools,  they  know  not 
how  much  more  is  the  half  than  the  whole,"  and  we 
ponder  whether  we  may  not  be  of  the  persons  addressed. 
But  it  is  high  time  to  say  good-bye  to  the  old  bard ;  here- 
after we  have  hopes  of  meeting  him  often  and  of  hearing 
his  lines,  steeped  in  the  memories  of  Helicon  ;  his  book  is 
indeed  henceforth  a  new  book. 


FROM  THEBES   TO  LEBEDEIA.  255 

As  you  saunt<  r  along,  looking  up  to  the  glorious  heights 
of  Helicon,  the  old  woman  will  meet  you,  rude-visaged, 
with  skin  wrinkled  and  burnt  by  the  sun  of  the  plain,  but 
hardy,  long-striding  for  a  woman.  Of  course  you  will  ad- 
dress her  ;  broken  fragments  of  Greek  fall  from  her  mouth, 
not  easy  to  piece  together  ;  some  dialect  you  imagine,  with 
ancient  turns  perhaps.  Many  an  old  word  she  employs, 
though  wholly  uneducated ;  still  there  is  a  delight  in 
listening  to  her,  for  what  was  before  inanimate,  suddenly 
becomes  living  speech.  She  drives  a  donkey  —  so  did 
her  mother  2,000  years  ago.  She  takes  a  by-path  down 
into  the  reeds  of  Copais ;  I  pass  on,  still  glancing 
up  at  the  summits  of  sunny  Helicon,  and  wondering: 
Can  this  be  you?  How  is  it  that  just  you  have 
come  down  through  Time  in  an  eternal  glory,  and 
have  traveled  over  the  world,  across  the  ocean,  and 
are  still  winged  and  in  flight?  Other  hills  too  have 
had  fair  dells  and  sunny  heights  —  why  just  you? 
Some  great  man  made  you,  you  never  made  your- 
selves ;  some  bard  it  was,  the  man  who  alone  can  attach 
pinions  to  the  hills,  and  send  them  on  their  flight 
through  Time. 

But  whatever  we  may  think  about  the  old  woman's 
origin,  we  may  affirm  that  the  genuine  descendant  of  the 
old  crow  is  here,  sweeping  over  the  ridges  in  enormous 
flocks  and  lighting  upon  the  fat  meadows.  And  here  too 
we  pass  ancieilt  Coroneia  or  Crow's  Town,  famous  for  the 
battles  which  took  place  in  its  vicinity ;  still  the  air  seems 
laden  with  curses  upon  two  men  —  Lysander  and  Sulla. 
Both  of  them  meet  a  most  deserved  fate  from  the  Gods  for 
their  evil  doings  in  this  plain,  whose  jarring  note  we  shall 
at  once  dismiss.  Further  up  is  the  fountain  Libethrias,  a 
true  nymph',  lying  deep  in  the  earth,  now  turned  to  solid 
rock ;  from  her  stony  breasts  gush  forth  two  fountains, 
whose  water  the  ancient  informant  declares  to  be  like 
milk.  Yonder  too  is  a  pretty  village  so  cosily  perched  on 
a  picturesque  platform  in  the  mountain  that  one  cannot 
help  imagining  that  it  must  produce  a  poet.  About  half 
way  up  the  mountain  it  lies  ;  the  peaks  above  seem  to  look 
down  upon  it  with  protection  and  love ;  its  name  I  cannot 


256  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

tell  you,  but  simply  let  it  pass  before  you  as  a  pleasing 
Heliconian  image. 

The  declivity  of  Helicon  at  this  season  of  the  year  is 
in  possession  of  the  Wallachian  shepherds  —  a  foreign 
race  on  Greek  soil.  Several  times  to-day  I  have  passed 
through  their  flocks,  browsing  on  either  side  of  the  roads 
or  reposing  on  the  hill-side  in  the  sun.  New-born  kids 
you  will  notice  lying  against  a  bramble,  while  the  young 
mother,  frightened  at  your  approach,  runs  off  a  few  steps 
and  then  turns  and  looks  at  you  with  shy  maternal  anxiety. 
Every  ewe  or  goat  has  a  little  one,  sometimes  two,  run- 
ning along  at  her  side  and  bleating,  fine- voiced  ;  thereto 
she  answers  by  a  bleat  of  far  deeper  tones;  thus  thou- 
sands and  thousands  of  notes  are  resounding  to-day  over 
the  mountains ;  such  is  now  the  music  of  Helicon. 

In  the  midst  of  his  herd,  upon  a  rock,  stands  the  shep- 
herd, shaggy-mantled  as  one  of  his  own  sheep,  with  his 
long  crooked  staff  in  hand,  gazing  down  at  the  passing 
stranger.  He  will  call  his  goats  and  sheep  by  name,  as 
if  they  were  human  beings,  in  inquiry,  in  caresses,  in  re- 
pi-oof ,  like  old  Polypheme ;  often  a  shrill  whistle  is  the 
note  of  warning  for  them  to  keep  away  from  the  tilled 
field,  which  whistle  can  frequently  be  heard  coming  from 
the  sunny  slopes  when  no  whistler  can  be  seen,  for  he  is 
screened  by  the  rocks  and  brambles  of  the  mountain. 
Some  of  these  Wallachian  shepherds  cannot  talk  Greek, 
some  can ;  of  one  of  the  latter  I  ask :  'Where  do  you 
live?  —  Twenty- five  days'  journey  from  here,  on  the 
Pindus.  —  Will  you  take  me  with  you  when  you  return 
home!  — Yes,  but  we  shall  not  start  for  some  months 
yet.  —  That  was  the  end  of  the  plan.  But  what  a  life ! 
To  spend  it  among  sheep,  by  yourself,  in  the  open  air,  on 
the  mountains,  calling  your  flock  by  name  as  familiar 
friends !  I  cannot  sleep  in  a  house,  said  one  of  them,  I  get 
sick ;  women  and  children  live  in  houses,  not  men.  —  Such 
was  the  pastoral  view  of  human  existence. 

But  not  shepherds  alone  are  found  upon  Helicon,  there 
are  also  shepherdesses ;  and  it  was  there  I  learned  a  new 
admiration  for  the  latter.  The  heroine  was  a  Wallachian 
woman.  She  was  sitting  amid  her  flock  on  a  stone ;  in 


FROM  THEBES  TO  LEBEDEIA.       257 

her  lap  lay  a  bundle  which  she  seemed  to  arrange  with 
unusual  care  and  tenderness.  As  I  approached  I  was 
astonished  to  hear  a  faint  cry  proceed  from  the  bundle  ;  at 
my  request  she  threw  open  the  folds  of  an  old  shawl 
covering  it,  and  there  lay  a  new-born  infant.  New-born 
indeed,  for  its  eyes  were  not  yet  open ;  it  lay  there  still 
red  with  the  friction  of  parturition,  and  appeared  to  be 
enjoying  the  luxury  of  its  first  scream  in  the  free  light  of 
heaven.  She  arose  from  her  seat  and  threw  a  stone  at  a 
ewe  which  was  trespassing  on  the  grainfield.  "  What," 
I  cried,  "  are  you  already  up  and  out?  "  To  my  amaze- 
ment I  learned  that  she  had  been  overtaken  by  her  labor 
in  the  field  some  hours  before ;  but  stopping  a  few 
moments  and  wrapping  the  little  new-comer  in  her  gar- 
ment, she  went  on  about  her  business  ;  amid  her  flock, 
she  too  had  given  birth  to  her  kid.  Great  was  the  sym- 
pathy of  the  traveler  at  first,  but  she  needed  no  sym- 
pathy —  for  was  she  not  there  in  perfect  health  and  with- 
out pain  ?  Still  I  could  not  help  filliping  a  silver  drachma 
as  a  beginning  in  life  to  the  youngster,  now  growing 
louder  with  the  minutes.  Such  was  our  real  HeUiconian 
shepherdess. 

All  day  Parnassus  has  been  looming  up  in  front  of  me, 
growing  nearer ;  yet  sometimes  I  have  quite  lost  sight  of 
it  in  the  envelopment  of  clouds.  One  may  well  wonder 
what  is  there,  what  it  has  in  .store  for  the  traveler.  Re- 
peatedly it  came  forth,  having  top  and  sides  strown  with 
sunshine ;  but  rain  is  still  threatened,  and  Parnassus  for 
the  most  part  hides  itself  in  cloudy  drapery.  Not  yet 
has  it  revealed  itself  to  the  approaching  guest,  but  he 
looks  forward  with  longing  glances,  and  in  golden  sheen 
at  times  beholds  his  goal.  Mighty,  but  very  vague  and 
uncertain  is  the  expectancy  hovering  around  its  summits, 
yet  even  upon  the  clouds  there  the  day's  radiance  has  a 
tendency  to  disport  itself.  Will  the  Muses  strip  off  that 
vapor  and  come  forth  into  clear  Greek  outline?  Wait; 
we  shall  see. 

But  we  have  already  reached  a  spur  of  a  mountain  run- 
ning out  into  Copais  ;  it  is  the  extreme  tip  of  the  arc  upon 
which  we  have  been  moving  now  for  several  hours  ;  let  us 

17 


258  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

turn  around  and  look  back  at  it.  In  a  long  amphithe- 
atrical  curve  it  sweeps  around  from  the  opposite  tip  for 
many  miles  ;  Thebes  is  out  of  sight,  but  villages  fleck  the 
distant  hill-sides ;  cotton  carts  can  be  seen  far  across  the 
lake  slowly  rounding  the  curve.  And  that  immense  curve 
walled  in  by  the  mountains  is  one  of  Nature's  own,  care- 
fulty  drawn  by  her  with  a  huge  pair  of  compasses  from  a 
center  taken  somewhere  far  out  in  the  swamp.  Behold 
her,  the  first  geometrician,  now  in  the  very  act. 

But  up  and  forward !  Turning  the  spur  and  following 
the  road  a  short  distance,  we  come  to  Lebedeia,  lying  be- 
tween Helicon  and  Parnassus.  What  a  musical  spot 
ought  it  not  to  be,  situated  between  two  such  abodes  of 
the  Muses,  who  may  sing  to  each  other  from  top  to  top ! 
Glancing  between  the  twain,  one  seeks  to  solve  this  ques- 
tion :  Why  of  all  the  world  did  their  worship  locate  just 
here  ?  The  two  ranges  confront  each  other  like  rivals ; 
rivals  indeed  they  were  ;  the  people  in  antiquity,  one  feels 
sure,  held  in  the  valley  between  a  tournament  of  the 
Muses,  trying  to  settle  the  dispute  as  to  where  was  their 
true  seat.  Such,  it  would  almost  seem,  was  then  the 
vital  question  through  these  hills  and  valleys  —  a  question 
which  must  be  settled  by  trial  and  decision.  But  what 
people  at  present  deems  such  a  dispute  of  any  signifi- 
cance? The  other  great  question  has  now  arisen:  Who 
shall  trade  with  the  Ashantees,  who  shall  sell  a  penknife 
to  the  South  Sea  Islander  ?  For  such  and  similar  ques- 
tions much  blood  has  been  spilled,  while  both  Helicon  and 
Parnassus  with  their  sweet  rivalry  have  been  quite 
deserted ;  in  mute  protest  they  still  stand  here,  wondering 
to-day  at  the  new  ways  of  the  world. 

As  we  approach  Lebedeia  and  glance  at  its  situation, 
we  ask,  what  is  its  character?  What  are  the  secret  sug- 
gestions of  Nature  upon  this  spot  ?  For  we  may  be  sure 
that  the  Old  Greek  felt  them  and  wrought  them  into  some 
form  of  utterance,  legendary,  oracular,  divine.  Most  in- 
timately he  felt  what  surrounded  him  and  then  bodied  it 
forth  into  the  myth ;  this  myth,  too,  bore  the  impress  of 
his  spiritual  existence.  There  the  Greek  mythical  world 
beautifully  hovers,  between  Nature  and  Spirit,  spanning 


FROM  THEBES  TO  LEBEDEIA.       259 

both  like  a  rainbow,  yet  reflecting  both  in  one  fair  image. 
Whoever  says  that  Greek  Mythology  is  of  merely  physical 
import,  mistakes ;  whoever  says  that  it  is  of  merely  spirit- 
ual import,  mistakes.  In  like  manner  the  Oracle  sprang 
up,  even  the  God  had  the  same  origin.  On  every  spot  of 
Greek  ground  rose  that  mythical  rainbow  from  Nature 
there  into  the  heaven  of  Spirit  above  it ;  so  we  look  now 
before  us  with  expectancy  and  ask :  What  shall  we  find 
at  Lebedeia  ? 

Entering  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  we  note  first  that  it 
sits  at  the  mouth  of  a  defile ;  it  seems  to  have  been  born 
of  that  mountain  just  behind  it,  which  is  Helicon  or  a 
continuation  of  Helicon.  Springing  out  of  the  rocky 
depths,  the  town  lies  there,  now  in  the  sunlight,  but  once 
hid  in  the  dark  stony  womb  of  the  mountain ;  still  back 
of  the  houses  you  will  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  obscure  gorge 
which  opens  into  the  town  and  s.eems  to  have  just  spit  it 
out.  Lebedeia  thus  appears  at  first  view  to  be  a  product 
of  the  cleft,  yet  lying  outside  of  its  jaws  ;  she  must  be  a 
child  of  this  mountainous  Nature,  resting  at  present  in 
the  bright  gleams  of  Helius,  but  still  partaking  or  hinting 
of  her  gloomy  origin.  Some  slight  touch  thereof  wiU 
be  felt  by  the  sympathetic  traveler  as  he  enters  the  town. 

But  listen !  a  noise  is  continuously  humming  through 
the  streets,  but  it  is  not  of  men  ;  some  sound  of  Nature 
you  will  at  once  discern  it  to  be.  It  is  the  song  of  a 
brook  coming  out  of  the  cleft  there  and  dancing  in  many 
a  rivulet  through  Lebedeia.  It  too  is  born  of  the  gorge, 
from  that  same  dark  mouth  it  spouts  forth,  like  the  town 
which  it  fills  with  its  murmurs.  Springs  too  gush  up  from 
sunless  depths  of  rock  and  laugh  in  the  sunbeams  ;  their 
pellucid  flow  'and  babble  seem  to  have  that  primeval  joy 
of  first  beholding  light.  Thus  a  perpetual  undertone  of 
musical  waters  attunes  Lebedeia,  mingling  with  the  words 
of  her  people.  Something  therein  is  hinted  ;  brook  and 
town  are  in  a  secret  harmony,  both  suggest  the  outgiving 
of  Nature,  yet  bear  a  spiritual  impress.  Assuredly  some 
character  is  here  which  we  must  further  seek  for ;  legend 
must  have  given  a  voice  to  the  spot,  the  God  himself  must 
have  found  a  holy  utterance  for  the  place,  which  the  sen- 


260  A   WALK  IN  HELL  A  8. 

sitive  Greek  heard  and  in  some  form  expressed.  It  is  no 
wonder  that  an  Oracle  anciently  stood  here,  the  Oracle  of 
Trophonius,  whose  cave  is  still  in  yonder  mountain.  We 
too  shall  consult  that  Oracle,  and  see  whether  it  may  utter 
any  word  for  us,  since  it  can  never  be,  to  the  true  believer, 
wholly  dumb. 


XII.  STOP  AT  LEBEDEIA. 

It  was  getting  late  in  the  afternoon  when  I  reached  the 
khan,  to  which  a  mule-driver  of  a  very  friendly  and  talk- 
ative turn  conducted  me.  The  house  is  unpretentious, 
the  chief  decoration  being  a  porch  to  the  second  story ; 
in  the  rear  is  a  large  yard,  filled  at  this  moment  with 
carts  and  donkeys,  among  which  wind  tight-trowsered  red-* 
moccasined  men  in  fustanellas,  rudely  hurling  fair  frag- 
ments of  old  classic  speech  at  their  dumb  beasts  and  at 
one  another.  The  traveler  will  speedily  engage  a  room 
for  the  night,  and  will  ask  to  see  it ;  on  being  led  thither, 
he  will  find  it  absolutely  empty — bare  walls,  bare  floors, 
chairless,  bedless.  But  let  him  not  get  out  of  humor ; 
whenever  he  wishes  to  retire,  the  youth  in  attendance  will 
bring  an  armful  of  mats  and  blankets  which  will  be  spread 
upon  the  floor,  and  he  will  be  spared  the  labor  of  climb- 
ing into  his  bed. 

There  is  still  time  for  a  short  stroll  through  the  town ; 
that  undertone  of  rushing  waters  is  always  heard  and  ex- 
cites curiosity  concerning  what  it  may  be  saying.  Upon 
a  bridge  I  stop  and  look  down  at  the  current ;  I  feel  a 
twftch  at  my  coat  and  turn  around ;  before  me  stands  an 
officer  of  the  Greek  army.  He  had  observed  my  foreign 
dress  and  manner,  and  had  concluded  to  enquire  where  I 
was  lodged ;  when  I  informed  him,  he  pressingly  invited 
me  to  share  his  quarters  with  him,  but  I  thought  I  must 
try  the  khan  for  one  night  at  least.  It  was  only  one  of 
several  offers  of  hospitality  extended  to  me  in  Lebedeia, 
though  I  was  an  utter  stranger  and  without  letters  of  any 


STOP  AT  LEBEDEIA.  261 

kind.  With  a  very  pleasant  impression  of  the  town,  I  go 
back  to  my  room,  and  lie  down  to  rest  with  that  curious 
sound  of  rushing  waters  leading  me  along  sunny  banks 
into  happy  regions  of  slumber. 

Such  was  dreamland,  but  in  our  real  world  there  had 
been  pitchy  darkness  filled  with  driving  rain-storms  dur- 
ing the  entire  night.  In  the  morning  the  weather  looked 
unsettled ;  the  streams  had  overflowed  their  banks,  the 
roads  were  muddy,  for  the  Great  Road  had  now  been  left, 
and  only  mule-paths  led  forward  to  Parnassus.  So  we 
shall  lie  over  a  day  at  Lebedeia,  not  without  some  hope 
of  entertainment. 

When  you  wake  you  will  again  hear  the  sound  of  rush- 
ing waters,  now  much  louder  than  on  the  previous  even- 
ing; the  stream,  which  flows  through  the  middle  of  the 
town,  is  full.  After  an  early  lunch  you  will  hasten  to 
this  stream  and  begin  to  follow  it  up  to  its  source,  for 
surely  it  has  some  very  near  relation  to  the  place.  Thus 
you  will  be  led  to  the  mountains  back  of  the  town,  toward 
the  gorge.  At  many  points  can  be  noticed  springs,  small 
caves,  precipices  beetling  over  the  dash  of  the  furious 
torrent.  The  mountain  shoots  up  into  a  number  of  peaks 
which  look  like  the  pipes  of  an  immense  organ,  upon 
which,  you  may  think,  Heliconian  music  might  still  be 
played.  Nor  will  you  pass  unnoticed  some  plane-trees 
which  hang  around  and  over  the  stream  in  a  sort  of  fond 
caress.  Arched  bridges,  too,  you  will  observe,  spanning 
the  stream  in  romantic  spots  through  the  town,  joining 
together  in  happy  embrace  what  had  been  separated. 

Large  fountains  gush  up  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  near  the 
mouth  of  the  gorge,  and  flow  in  swift  clear  streams,  walled 
off  into  artificial  channels  which  wind  round  among  the 
houses.  Here  must  have  been  those  two  famous  springs, 
Memory  and  Oblivion,  of  which  the  ancient  traveler  drank 
when  he  consulted  the  Oracle ;  we,  too,  shall  taste  of  them 
now,  and  seek  to  get  its  response.  Notice  the  wild  current 
boiling  out  of  the  gorge ;  it  is  Herkyna,  the  dashing 
Nymph  who  still  makes  music  through  the  town  ;  anciently 
she  had  a  temple  here  and  was  worshiped  by  the  people ; 
her  voice  it  is  which  we  hear  humming  the  undertone  of 


262  A  WALK  JN  HELLAS. 

Lebedeia.  A  legend  was  told  of  the  origin  of  this  stream : 
Proserpine  was  playing  with  a  goose  in  the  grove  of 
Trophonius  not  far  off,  when  the  goose  escaped  and  hid 
under  a  rock ;  Proserpine  ran  after  it  and  removed  the 
rock,  when  behold !  up  rose  the  stream  and  flew  down  the 
channel  on  its  white  wings,  continuing  its  flight  ever  after- 
wards and  being  called  Herkyua ;  in  the  temple  on  the 
bank  was  the  statue  of  Herkyna  holding  in  her  hands  the 
goose,  which  was  ready  to  fly,  we  may  suppose. 

Up  this  stream  into  the  gorge  whence  it  issues  we  shall 
continue  our  walk,  in  search  of  the  goose,  perchance  ;  on 
either  side  lofty  walls  of  stone  rise  toward  heaven  and 
form  a  darkened  passage  which  gives  a  feeling  of  initiation 
into  some  sacred  mystery.  Cavities  you  will  observe, 
natural  and  artificial ;  places  are  cut  into  the  rock  above, 
in  which  you  will  locate  ancient  shi-ines.  Here,  too,  is  a 
pedestal  built  against  the  steep  cliff  just  at  the  edge  of  the 
torrent ;  above  it  are  half  a  dozen  small  cavities,  hollowed 
out  for  images,  you  will  conjecture.  Immense  boulders 
which  have  fallen  from  the  top  lie  in  the  middle  of  the 
stream,  around  which  the  waters  roar  and  surge  down  the 
chasm.  Thus  you  will  pick  your  way  through  the  gorge, 
at  times  with  difficulty  avoiding  the  splashing  swift  cur- 
rent, which  roars  around  you,  filling  the  hollow  passage 
with  its  echoes.  At  one  point  you  will  try  to  climb  up  the 
sides  to  the  top,  but  you  will  be  cut  off  by  an  overhang- 
ing rock.  Descend  again  into  the  gorge  and  listen  to  the 
genius  of  the  place,  for  the  God  will  not  yet  suffer  you  to 
come  up  into  sunlight;  you  must  first  catch  its  dim 
whisper. 

What,  then,  does  it  all  say?  Can  any  one  blame  the 
ancient  dweller  if  he  came  into  these  secret  hollows  and 
asked  them  to  speak  ?  It  would  seem  that  they  have  some 
utterance  for  man,  though  vague  and  mysterious.  Still 
the  people  of  to-day  place  in  these  shrines  images  of  the 
Virgin  and  Child,  and  name  them  after  the  Saints,  as  if 
there  were  yet  some  divine  influence  in  the  spot.  The 
whole  expression  of  the  locality  was  anciently  collected 
into  one  voice  —  the  voice  of  Trophonius,  the  Prophet, 
who  was  the  most  ancient  dweller  amid  these  rocks. 


STOP  AT  LESEDEIA.  263 

Upon  the  hill  overhanging  the  town  was  his  sanctuary, 
whence  he  uttered  his  oracles  ;  long  they  maintained  their 
credit,  it  is  said  till  every  other  Boeotian  oracle  had 
ceased. 

The  rite  is  given  by  our  ancient  guide  Pausanias  who 
consulted  the  Oracle  in  person.  Preparation  was  insisted 
upon — purification  and  sacrifice,  with  bathing  "in  Her- 
kyna.  After  much  cleansing,  by  night  the  consnltor  de- 
scended in  to  the  cave  of  Trophonius,  which  had  a  large  sub- 
terranean chamber,  when  he  had  drunk  of  the  two  springs  — 
of  Oblivion,  that -he  might  forget  his  worldly  life,  and  of 
Memory,  that  he  might  remember  what  the  Prophet  told 
him.  Into  the  cave  was  an  opening  wherein  he  put  his 
feet ;  suddenly  he  was  drawn  into  a  still  deeper  cave  in 
which  he  saw  things  otherwise  invisible.  When  he  came 
out,  he  was  placed  on  the  throne  of  Memory,  and  his 
vision  recorded.  Yet  the  process  was  without  danger  for 
the  pure  in  heart ;  only  one  death  from  the  consultation  is 
recorded,  that  of  the  soldier  of  Demetrius,  who  descended 
into  the  cave  with  the  hope  of  getting  money  there.  But 
the  indignant  Prophet  cast  his  dead  body  out  of  the  earth, 
not  even  by  the  ordinary  passage. 

Such  was  the  Oracle  of  Trophonius,  whose  proceedings 
seem  not  without  a  touch  of  priestcraft,  but  on  the  whole 
they  seek,  at  times  with  the  strictness  of  an  allegory,  to 
figure  the  descent  of  a  man  into  himself,  into  his  own  soul. 
To  purify  that  by  many  days'  discipline  till  it  becomes 
transparent  and  reflects  clearly  somewhat  of  the  Divine, 
has  been  always  one  of  the  rites  of  religion.  So  old 
Trophonius  commanded,  and  was  a  true  prophet  for  his 
people  ;  so  Nature  commands  here  to-day  in  this  gorge, 
very  dimly  to  be  sure,  still  it  is  a  command.  Her  obscure 
voice  was  gathered  into  the  Oracle,  which  has  now  grown 
almost  speechless  in  a  much  clearer  light. 

Upon  this  spot,  then,  arises  the  necessity  of  the  re- 
ligion of  Nature,  who  was  consulted  in  her  Oracle,  for 
here  she  has  revealed  herself  in  a  wonderful  way.  If  now 
we  can  only  gather  her  voice,  that  voice  may  mean  some- 
thing—  that  voice  is,  I  hold,  Trophonius.  Such  is  our 
oracular  country,  with  scenery  somewhat  resembling 


264  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

Delphi,  particularly  this  gorge.  But  Delphi  is  far  more 
colossal,  and  has  many  things  wanting  at  Lebecleia  — 
whereof  we  may  hereafter  have  somewhat  to  tell.  Le- 
bedeia  with  its  Trophonius  forms  the  transition  out  of 
Boeotia  with  its  Helicon  and  Muses  on  the  mountain  tops, 
to  Delphi  which  has  both  Oracle  and  Muses  in  the  abode 
of  divine  Apollo.  Trophonius  is  only  an  Oracle,  not  a 
God ;  Nature  here  takes  a  more  earnest,  darker  phase 
than  at  Delphi,  for  Delphic  Apollo  is  the  Light-God,  and 
becomes  the  union  of  poesy  and  prophecy  in  their  supreme 
manifestation.  Trophonius  is  still  the  dark  symbolism  in 
which  the  unclear  struggling  soul  finds  expression,  and 
which  has  not  yet  been  fully  unfolded  into  sunlight. 

Thus  we  have  here  some  faint  anticipation  of  Delphi. 
An  Oriental  symbolism  of  obscure  characters  and  rites 
belongs  to  Greece  also,  is  in  fact  its  primordial  unripe 
stage  of  development.  But  the  Greek  mind  will  unfold 
out  of  this  dim  condition ;  Greek  Art  will  abandon  vague 
forms  and  leap  forth  into  the  clearest  outline.  In  the 
meantime  the  traveler  also  will  have  come  out  of  the  dark 
gorge  and  reached  the  transparent  fountain  of  Memory, 
who  will  treasure  what  the  Oracle  has  told  him  here. 
With  the  utterance  of  Trophonius  deeply  impressed  upon 
his  heart,  he  will  descend  into  the  town  and  mingle  among 
its  people. 

There  as  you  cast  glances  into  the  passing  faces,  you  will 
consider  another  transition  to  be  manifestly  taking 
place  —  the  transition  to  a  new  type  of  people.  I  think 
that  every  attentive  observer  would  notice  the  change ; 
finer,  more  regular  features  begin  to  appear ;  besides, 
there  seems  to  be  something  of  a  mental  wakening  up  — 
more  quickness  of  apprehension,  more  vivacity,  You 
will  imagine,  as  you  scan  the  faces  and  the  manners, 
that  here  is  a  truer  Hellenic  type,  that  some  drops 
of  old  blood  have  percolated  through  so  many  gen- 
erations. -  Women,  too,  begin  to  appear,  though  shy 
still ;  their  faces  are  getting  to  be  more  free  from  Oriental 
wrappage ;  one  I  have  seen,  which  I  shall  remember  — 
dark,  fine-featured,  with  lively  looks.  Children,  too, 
show  improvement  in  beauty ;  sometimes  they  have  blue 


STOP  AT  LEBEDEIA.  265 

eyes  and  the  appearance  of  blondes.  The  traveler  will 
saunter  through  the  lanes  and  alleys  to  catch  some 
glances ;  he  comes  to  the  conclusion  that  now  there  is 
hope  of  Helen.  That  which  he  has  hitherto  almost  de- 
spaired of  seems  to  be  growing  possible ;  here  is  the  di- 
viding line  perchance,  with  a  mixed  race.  But  off  in  the 
mountains  yonder  she  must  be  hidden,  probably  unde- 
veloped, in  the  garb  of  a  peasant  maiden,  still  the  germ 
of  the  Argive  queen. 

Also  one  will  not  fail  to  notice,  if  he  be  faithful  to  his 
main  task,  many  instances  of  the  Old  in  the  New ;  those 
two  youths  passing  down  the  street,  locked  in  each  other's 
arms,  call  up  the  ancient  conception  of  friendship  and 
even  of  love  between  the  same  sex.  Young  fellows  em- 
brace each  other  and  kiss  with  a  sort  of  rapture  —  a  little 
touch  of  Platonic  Eros,  innocent  enough,  I  imagine. 
They  will  sing  a  song  together  with  much  exaltation  —  a 
possible  consequence  of  an  overdraught  of  recinato, 
which  mellows  the  heart  wonderfully  in  this  Greek  climate. 
Friendship  let  it  be  called,  with  a  strange  interplay,  per- 
chance, of  sexual  feeling,  somewhat  remote  from  the 
Western  consciousness. 

I  turn  into  a  wineshop ;  here  enters  a  woman  with  per- 
fect Greek  outlines  in  her  face,  but  with  a  bold  stare  in 
it  which  will  not  turn  aside  at  the  glance  of  a  stranger. 
She  is  the  first  Greek  female  that  I  have  seen  in  such  a 
place ;  she  mingles  freely  among  the  boys,  smoking  her 
paper  cigarette ;  she  talks  with  volubility  and  badgers 
them  jestingly,  in  words  which  I  do  not  understand,  and 
it  is  probably  just  as  well  that  I  do  not.  But  her  re- 
marks excite  their  laughter ;  I  ask  my  neighbor :  What, 
is  that  the  custom  here  for  women  to  come  to  the  wine- 
shops ?  —  Oh,  no ;  she  is  the  only  one  in  town  that  does 
so;  it  is  Maria,  do  you  not  know  Maria?  —  I  cannot  say 
that  I  do;  but  it  is  Maria,  is  it?  —  Very  manifestly  it  is 
Maria  —  Maria  Magdalena,  hut  as  yet  without  the  repent- 
ance. With  sorrow  one  turns  away,  seeing  this  phase  of 
the  antique  still  in  the  modern,  yet  casting  glances  at 
those  perfect  lines  in  her  face  which  was  anciently  a 
Phidian  model. 


266  A    WALK  Itf  HELLAS. 

In  the  afternoon  the  rain  begins  again,  and  the  saun- 
tering comes  to  an  end.  I  take  refuge  in  the  lonesome 
khan,  go  up  to  my  naked  room  and  look  out  of  the  window, 
seeing  it  rain,  with  a  slight  shiver.  To-morrow  threatens 
to  be  an  ill  day  again ;  the  thought  is  distracting.  The 
place  is  gloomy,  the  hours  grow  unendurably  tedious, 
the  two  or  three  books  have  been  read  to  death.  Now 
the  traveler  begins  to  repent  again  ;  the  God  of  Light  has 
fled  with  the  sunshine,  the  classical  mood  departs  when 
you  see  nought  but  clouds  and  rain  through  the  window 
of  a  Greek  khan.  It  is  the  reverse  side  of  the  picture, 
more  ugly  because  you  have  been  spoiled  by  the  previous 
glorious  days ;  your  wings  refuse  to  fold  themselves  in 
rest.  But  so  it  was  once  before  on  a  rainy  day  at  Mar- 
copoulo;  then  followed  a  happy  journey — so  it  may  be 
again  to-morrow.  Hope  then  ;  yonder  is  Parnassus,  visi- 
ble often  through  the  clouds ;  one  day's  journey  will  bring 
thee  thither.  Put  the  sun-god  within  thee  ;  have  him  rise 
there  in  all  his  majesty,  scattering  his  beams  ;  then  thou 
wilt  be  independent  of  him  in  the  outer  world,  and  canst 
let  it  rain  in  peace. 

Yet  one  will  be  glad  when  the  shower  ceases  for  a  time, 
and  will  seize  the  opportunity  to  hurry  into  the  street. 
The  roar  of  the  waters  is  now  louder  than  ever ;  the  gen- 
tle nymph  Herkyna  is  changed  to  a  wrathful  torrent.  But 
she  is  always  a  delight,  for  she  always  shows  in  some  way 
her  love  for  her  own  dear  town  of  Lebedeia.  For  the 
town  is  truly  married  to  the  stream ;  its  waters  are  borne 
everywhere  through  many  a  conduit  and  rivulet,  which 
turn  an  indefinite  number  of  mills.  They  pour  over 
dams,  forming  cascades  of  various  sizes,  the  sounds  of 
which  are  always  heard  through  the  town.  This  is  the 
well-known  undertone  of  Lebedeia,  the  voice  which  is  al- 
ways speaking,  not  unpleasantly ;  it  is  the  most  impor- 
tant member  of  the  community,  the  one  who  has  most  to 
say  with  genuine  Greek  garrulity  and  sprightliness.  So 
Herkyna  with  her  many  runnels  spreads  out  in  manifold 
ways,  now  darting  under  bridges,  then  drawn  into  mill- 
wheels,  often  washing  the  stone  wall  of  some  house  that 
has  a  portico  extending  over  the  stream.  Therefore  we 


STOP  AT  LEBEDEIA.  267 

may  call  Herkyna  a  blessing,  a  divine  thing  for  Lebedeia ; 
to  her  the  ancients  might  well  erect  a  temple.  What 
can  be  compared  with  her  beneficence !  The  entire  pros- 
perity of  the  town  is  connected  with  her  movement,  her 
many  winding  channels  are  its  arteries,  through  which 
pulses  its  life-blood  ;  —  purifier,  too,  she  is,  bearing  away 
disease  and  discomfort ;  truly  we  may  call  her  useful  in 
the  best  sense  of  the  word. 

But  that  for  which  she  chiefly  deserves  divine  honors  is 
that  she  is  beautiful,  with  her  clear  full  gush  from  the 
caverns  of  darkness  rippling  into  daylight  and  rejoicing 
therein.  One  will  notice  from  the  khan  a  sort  of  horse- 
shoe falls  which  dashes  over  and  pours  down  like  a  little 
Niagara,  then  the  watery  arm  twines  in  a  loving,  myste- 
rious manner  around  among  the  houses.  Never  did  I  see 
a  town  so  intimate  with  a  stream  ;  Verona  with  its  Adige 
leaves  some  such  impression,  but  not  so  strong  and  unre- 
served ;  it  is  a  marriage,  not  of  convenience,  one  will  af- 
firm, but  of  love,  in  such  mutual  joyous  embrace  do  they 
lie.  Not  too  large  is  the  stream,  not  an  uncontrollable 
giant ,  in  many  places  it  can  be  easily  stepped  over  on 
the  friendly  rocks  which  it  offers  in  the  middle  of  the 
current.  But,  to-day,  till  the  flood  runs  out,  which  it  will 
in  a  few  hours,  the  Nymph  is  somewhat  untameable,  even 
wrathful. 

Yet  another  shower,  extinguishing  the  kindled  hope ! 
Assuredly  the  Naiads  possess  the  town ;  even  the  sky  has 
become  a  fountain  this  afternoon,  spouting  down  innu- 
merable jets  of  water ;  the  happy  Gods  above  seem  to 
have  been  changed  into  water-nymphs.  Behold  the  de- 
scending streams  of  rain ;  Lebedeia  with  all  her  runnels 
has  gone  up  into  the  clouds,  filling  the  air  with  perennial 
springs  which  'now  fall  down  into  her  earthy  lap.  The 
unwilling  brooks  refuse  to  be  separated  from  their  dear 
town,  but  are  dropping  back  entire  into  her  embrace  from 
the  skies,  quite  as  they  once  rose  out  of  the  earth  to  greet 
her. 

Thus  we  may  connect  Lebedeia  with  her  stream  and 
springs,  with  her  gorge  and  mountains  ;  we  think  of  her 
as  born  of  this  Nature,  and  reflecting  its  visage  in  herself 


268  A  WALK  AY  HELLAS. 

to  a  degree  ;  this  rise  out  of  the  physical  world  must  have 
been  also  the  spiritual  principle  in  her  worship.  So  the 
Nymphs  were  born,  so  even  the  Gods  were  born,  like 
Herkyna,  like  Trophonius,  like  Lebedeia  herself.  Where 
is  the  Poet  that  he  may  express  this  fact?  For  it  must 
have  been  sung,  being  a  true  theme  of  song,  of  deep  mu- 
sical significance  ;  certainly  it  must  have  attuned  some 
Greek  voice.  Out  of  Heliconian  mist  a  face  begins  to 
peer,  a  familiar  face ;  it  is  that  same  Hesiod  whom  we 
have  already  met  with  upon  Helicon.  But  now  he  has  a 
new  book  which  bears  this  title:  Birth  of  the  Gods;  a 
very  different  book,  you  will  observe,  from  the  last  one 
which  we  spoke  of,  yet  with  many  sisterly  traces  of  rela- 
tionship. Some  old  Boeotians  denied  its  authenticity ;  we 
shall  not  do  so,  but  place  it  somewhere  here,  as  having 
its  origin  upon  the  Heliconian  range.  Without  violence 
we  may  think  of  it  in  connection  with  Lebedeia,  with  its 
dark  beginning  in  Chaos  and  bright  outcome  in  the  reign 
of  Zeus. 

The  Poet  has  called  his  work  a  Theogony,  in  which  he 
propounds  a  problem  of  sacred  import :  The  Birth  of  the 
Gods.  Think  of  him  dealing  with  such  a  theme  ;  he  and 
through  him  his  nation  have  then  arrived  at  that  stage  of 
spiritual  inquiry,  in  which  they  ask  and  seek  to  answer 
this  question :  How  did  the  Gods  above  us  come  to  be? 
It  is  the  search  for  origin,  origin  in  time  ;  where  will  it 
end,  having  nil  duration  back  of  it?  At  bottom  it  is  one 
with  our  modern  question :  What  is  the  origin  of  Man  ? 
Thus  we  at  present  state  it,  having  no  longer  any  Gods 
to  account  for.  But  ancient  Hesiod,  not  yet  having  lost 
his  faith,  puts  the  inquiry  in  this  shape:  What  is  the 
origin  of  the  Gods!  Which  being  found,  it  is  easy  to 
discover  whence  man  came. 

This  is  indeed  one  of  the  strangest  phantasms  that  wor- 
ries the  human  intellect,  this  question  of  the  Beginning ; 
it  asks  for  the  origin  in  Time  of  that  which  lies  out  of 
Time  —  Time  itself  being  one  of  the  products  of  Creation. 
It  is  a  ghost  with  a  mirror  eternally  producing  its  own 
shadows,  yet  each  shadow  holds  the  same  reproducing 
mirror  infinitely  multiplicative.  Most  obstinately  the 


STOP  AT  LEBEDEIA.  269 

phantasm  lurks  iu  the  human  mind,  haunting  the  thoughts 
of  the  little  child ;  for  at  Sunday-school  it  will  ask  its 
discomfited  teacher :  If  God  made  me,  tell  me  who  made 
God? 

The  Poet  as  the  Teacher  of  his  age  sets  about  answer- 
ing the  question,  and  thereby  converting  empty  phan- 
tasms into  images  of  truth,  even  though  they  be  dim  and 
remote.  We  see,  however,  that  this  scheme  embraces  a 
grand  transition  from  the  old  to  the  new  Gods ;  just  that 
is  its  essence.  Thus  it  is  plain  that  he  believes  in  devel- 
opment, there  is  progress  even  among  the  Gods,  in  them 
the  Greek  may  worship  advancement,  and  theology  with 
him  becomes  a  progressive  science.  Not  at  all  is  there 
here  the  lapse  from  the  perfect  to  the  less  perfect,  a  fall 
from  the  Divine  to  the  Bad ;  the  beginning  is  with  the  rude 
and  formless  among  Gods,  thence  they  rise  into  a  higher 
order. 

But  what  does  this  transition  from  the  old  to  the  new 
Gods  signify?  Fundamentally  the  greatest  of  all  transi- 
tions, the  one  in  which  the  culture  of  the  race  moves  —  it 
is  the  transition  from  Nature  to  Spirit.  Such  is  indeed 
the  true  birth  of  the  Gods  —  to  be  born  out  of  Nature  in- 
to Spirit.  The  Theogony  begins  with  Chaos  and  rises  to 
Zeus,  passing  from  dark  disorder  to  sunlit  order,  from 
the  rude  primeval  forces  of  Nature  to  a  spiritual  author- 
ity. Zeus  is  the  central  principle  of  the  world ;  before 
him  was  chaotic  struggle  of  turbulent  Powers,  after  him 
the  beautiful  Gods  appear,  his  sons  and  daughters ;  with 
them,  too,  Greece  is  born,  and  from  them  takes  her  char- 
acter. The  Heroes  also  are  born,  coming  forth  like 
sculptured  forms  into  a  serene  light,  and  the  dark  poem 
clears  up  into  sunshine  playing  amid  statues.  This  is  the 
new-born  Hellas. 

The  transition  from  the  old  to  the  new  Gods  is  then  the 
important  thing  in  the  poem.  But  it  takes  place  through 
terrific  conflicts ;  Zeus  has  first  to  put  down  his  father, 
Cronus,  whose  leading  trait  is  the  unfatherly  habit  of 
swallowing  his  own  offspring.  Therein  Time  is  hinted, 
which  consumes  its  own  progeny ;  but  it  has  begotten  a 
son  greater  than  itself,  greater  than  Time.  This  merely 


270  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

destructive  might  of  Time  must  be  brought  to  an  end  by 
a  universal  or  spiritual  power ;  so  Zeus  arises  and  accom- 
plishes the  first  great  act  of  culture.  Nay,  he  makes  his 
father  vomit  up  the  swallowed  offspring  to  light  again  — 
a  strange  yet  true  image  of  the  manner  in  which  Spirit 
treats  the  temporal ;  what  has  disappeared  in  the  ages, 
suddenly  springs  up  from  its  resting-place.  So  we  are 
now  making  Time  give  up  its  ancient  cities,  long  since 
swallowed  and  even  forgotten;  vanished  Troy,  lost 
Pompeii  have  been  vomited  from  the  capacious  maw  of 
Cronus.  Indeed  every  spiritual  son  of  Time  must  do  as 
Zeus  did,  must  make  the  pitiless  parent  reveal  the 
swallowed  world  of  the  past.  Such  is  truly  the  greatest 
conflict  of  Zeus,  greater  than  the  one  with  the  Titans, 
rude  primeval  forces  of  Nature  which  must  also  be  put 
down,  subjugated  to  the  reign  of  the  new  Gods,  ere  a  well- 
ordered  existence  be  possible  for  Man. 

But  will  there  not  be  a  new  development  of  Spirit  out- 
stripping even  this  last  —  will  there  not  arise  still  again 
new  Gods,  newer  than  Zeus,  with  whom  he  will  collide? 
It  would  seem  necessary  by  the  theory  of  development 
which  the  Poet  holds.  Yes,  here  he  appears,  Prometheus, 
the  Titan  heaven- defying,  with  his  protest  against  Zeus. 
On  the  whole  this  myth  of  Prometheus  may  be  called  the 
myth  of  all  civilization.  A  figure  of  stupendous  propor- 
tions ;  he  is  the  thinking  Titan  who  thinks  in  advance  of 
Zeus  himself,  and  has  to  suffer  for  it,  for  his  forethought. 
So  do  all  thinking  Titans ;  they  must  conflict  with  Zeus, 
with  the  established  Gods,  working  for  the  benefit  of  the 
human  race;  yet  bitter  is  the  draught  they  drink.  It  has 
justly  made  the  strongest  impression  upon  men,  this  myth 
of  Prometheus,  for  it  is  their  myth  in  the  deepest  sense. 
Poets  have  seized  it  and  wrought  it  over  in  the  spirit  of 
their  own  time  from  Aeschylus  to  Goethe.  It  is  only  too 
vast,  the  mind  may  well  be  paralyzed  at  trying  to  fill  the 
myth  with  its  full  import ;  it  would  seem  to  be  able  to 
hold  the  whole  human  race  and  have  plenty  of  room  left 
for  somebody  else. 

The  myth  of  Pandora  occurs  again  in  this  book  and 
connects  it  intimately  with  the  Works  and  Days  already 


STOP  AT  LE  BE  DEI  A.  271 

mentioned.  Here,  too,  man  is  punished  by  having  the 
woman  sent  upon  him.  She  is  the  attractive  being, 
decked  out  by  all  the  Goddesses ;  irresistible  is  her 
power,  for  man,  her  victim,  has  in  him  that  intense  love 
of  beauty,  cause  of  all  his  ills.  Yes,  man  must  love  her, 
that  is,  he  is  not  adequate  in  himself,  is  not  self- produc- 
ing; his  own  individuality  suffices  not,  he  will  perish 
unless  he  has  that  other  individuality  called  woman.  Such 
is  his  limitation,  a  hard  lot  truly,  a  curse  of  the  Gods  in 
the  language  of  the  poet,  yet  not  without  its  compensa- 
tion. Pandora  is  manifestly  the  Hesiodic  copy  of  Helen 
whose  beauty  caused  the  Trojan  War  and  its  grievous 
calamities ;  now  she  is  the  disaster  of  the  whole  human 
race.  Prometheus,  however,  did  not  win  in  his  conflict 
with  Zeus,  and  man  is  still  to  this  day  afflicted  from  that 
scourge  of  his  evils,  Pandora. 

But  another  Prometheus  rises  dimly  in  the  background, 
the  true  one  now,  Zeus's  own  son  by  Metis,  who,  it  is 
prophesied,  will  overthrow  his  father  and  establish  the 
newest  Gods.  So  the  Nemesis  continues,  father  is  pun- 
ished by  son,  receives  in  turn  just  what  he  has  done  to 
his  own  father.  A  fresh  problem  is  this  for  Zeus,  and 
solved  by  him  in  a  novel  way  ;  the  new  germ  he  swal- 
lows with  its  mother,  makes  it  his  own,  then  repro- 
duces it  as  Pallas,  Goddess  of  Wisdom.  Thus  he  mas- 
ters the  new  principle  by  taking  it  into  himself :  in  such 
manner  it  is  not  another's  and  an  enemy's,  but  his  own. 
By  this  act  he  becomes  the  true  Zeus,  and  his  rule  must 
remain  perpetual,  for  he  has  taken  up  his  last  foe  into 
himself.  Such  is  the  image  of  all  true  authority ;  that 
threatening  Prometheus  with  his  new  principle  must 
somehow  or  other  be  swallowed,  else  he  will  swallow  Zeus 
in  his  turn.  Thus,  too,  the  long  line  of  dark  retribu- 
tions between  father  and  son  among  the  Gods  is  brought 
to  an  end ;  Zeus  has  absorbed  their  principle,  and  the 
circle  terminates  in  him.  Thereafter  he  begets  the  bright 
Gods  —  the  Graces,  the  Muses,  the  Hours,  Diana, 
Apollo ;  the  beautiful  Greek  world  seems  to  spring  at 
once  into  sunlight.  The  heroes,  too,  are  born,  even  the 
heroes  of  Homer  —  Achilles  and  Ulysses ;  the  Hesiodic 


272  A    WALK  iy  HELLAS. 

Theogony,  accordingly  ends  with  bringing  forth  the 
Homeric  poems. 

Such  is,  then,  the  course  of  the  work ;  it  unfolds  the 
transition  from  the  old  to  the  new  Gods,  the  rise  from 
Nature  into  Spirit.  It  is  on  the  whole  a  dark  chaotic  pro- 
duction, though  it  terminates,  like  uight,  with  a  sunrise, 
and  has  lights  gleaming  through  it  at  intervals,  like  stars. 
The  story  of  Uranus  is  an  enormous  extravaganza,  with  a 
certain  dim  symbolism  underneath,  quite  foreign  to  the 
Greek  mind  of  the  Homeric  stamp.  It  is  the  rudest, 
most  fantastic  piece  of  Humor  extant,  for  I  cannot  help 
thinking  it  humorous  to  a  degree.  The  battle  of  Zeus  with 
the  Titans  is  pushed  to  the  very  verge  of  the  Burlesque, 
and  the  whole  work  has  a  tendency  to  pitch  over  into  the 
Burlesque,  in  attempting  to  portray  as  persons  the  colos- 
sal powers  of  Nature.  Still  we  feel  it  to  be  an  honest  at- 
tempt to  construe  the  world ;  its  dark  utterance  has  a  cer- 
tain consistency  with  the  dark  matters  whereof  it  sings; 
and  the  bright  forms  of  the  new  Gods  exhibit  a  significant 
contrast  to  the  obscure  convulsions  of  the  primeval  Gods. 

Sometimes  it  is  plainly  allegorical,  and  runs  along  with 
a  transparent  meaning ;  then  of  a  sudden  it  dives  into 
unseen  regions  where  no  eye  can  follow.  The  total  poem 
is  not  an  allegory,  one  big  key  will  not  unlock  the  whole 
at  once ;  it  requires  many  different  little  keys,  and  at 
times  no  key  at  all,  but  something  quite  distinct  from  an 
allegorical  key  to  reveal  the  hidden  purport.  Nor  can  it 
be  tortured  by  etymology  or  other  learned  thumb-screws 
into  a  self-consistent  allegory.  A  'phantasmagory  one 
would  better  call  it,  with  myth,  parable,  hymn,  even 
gleams  of  history  intermingled.  Yet  meaning  will  be 
found  in  it  as  a  Whole  ;  that  meaning  is  the  origin  of  the 
Gods,  the  rise  from  the  Natural  to  the  Spiritual,  more 
particularly,  the  birth  of  the  Greek  World.  To  the  old 
Greek,  therefore,  it  was  a  true  book ;  we  may  still  look 
at  it  with  his  eyes. 

Modern  critics  have  mercilessly  cut  to  pieces  the  Hesi- 
odic  poems,  applying  the  analytic  knife  at  every  joint ; 
an  unpleasant  and  in  the  main  an  unprofitable  business, 
unless  the  work  be  put  together  again.  Far  more  satis- 


STOP  AT  LEBEDEIA.  273 

factory  is  it  to  contemplate  these  poems  as  Wholes ;  in 
fact,  this  is  the  true  way ;  we  must  behold  them  spring- 
ing from  one  thought,  or  at  least  from  one  general 
consciousness  belonging  to  the  age  in  which  they  were 
written,  and  of  which  they  are  the  expression.  But  after 
cutting  up  the  old  Poet,  the  critics,  like  the  daughters  of 
Pelias,  have  been  totally  unable  to  restore  him  to  life,  let 
alone  to  rejuvenate  him.  We,  however,  in  our  Greek 
journey  wish  to  see  him  alive  and  throbbing  with  musical 
utterance  ;  therefore  we  must  look  up  to  the  heights  and 
listen  to  his  "voice  divine,  singing  a  beautiful  song  of 
both  the  future  and  the  past,  while  he  feeds  his  lambs 
under  sacred  Helicon." 

But  we  must  turn  away  from  ancient  Hesiod  and  take  a 
glance  at  this  modern  weather,  also  a  dark  theme  of  con- 
templation. At  six  o'clock  in  the  evening  it  is  still  rain- 
ing ;  but  between  two  successive  showers,  veritable  sheets 
of  water  hanging  down  from  the  clouds,  I  succeed  in 
slipping  out  of  the  khan  in  search  of  a  little  diversion. 
The  fierce  roar  of  the  stream  floats  through  the  darkness ; 
Herkyna  seems  to  have  become  more  wrathful  than  ever 
at  the  muddy  torrent  poured  into  her  bosom.  I  dropped 
into  an  eating-house  ;  there  a  Greek  gentleman  came  up 
and  began  to  talk  with  me  in  such  a  friendly  manner  that 
all  moodiness  of  the  day  took  wings  and  flew  off  into  the 
darkness.  After  some  pleasant  conversation  he  insisted 
upon  my  going  home  with  him  and  staying  there  for  the 
night.  His  invitation  was  jo}'fully  accepted. 

The  wife  and  children  received  the  stranger  in  hearty 
friendliness ;  it  was  a  Greek  family  of  the  better  class. 
One  of  the  daughters  was  lying  on  a  couch  near  the  fire  — 
a  young  lady- rather  beautiful,  but  in  still  more  beautiful 
neglect ;  she  had  flowered  into  womanhood,  but  her  body 
still  showed  the  weariness  of  the  effort ;  she  seemed  to 
droop  in  maidenly  languor  on  the  couch,  where  the  fresh 
outlines  of  her  form  were  revealed  in  a  modest  though 
bewitching  fullness.  She  arose  at  our  entrance  with  evident 
effort-;  but  after  a  few  moments  she  wilted  back,  as  it 
were,  into  her  former  posture.  The  mother  is  an  exceed- 
ingly bright  and  energetic  woman,  with  a  hospitable 

18 


274  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

grace  which  at  once  puts  the  '  guest  at  ease ;  no  such 
woman  have  I  yet  seen  in  rural  Greece.  A  roasted  pig's 
head  serves  as  the  chief  article  of  the  evening  repast ; 
lively  talk  rises  all  around  the  table ;  the  merry  children 
could  not  restrain  their  laughter  at  the  odd  accent  and 
ways  of  the  stranger.  Of  course  I  could  not  help  letting 
out  what  was  in  me,  for  I  asked  after  the  beauties  of 
Lebedeia,  in  a  sort  of  furtive  inquiry ;  then  I  wanted  to 
know  about  those  of  Arachoba,  of  whom  I  had  heard 
along  the  route.  The  mother  gently  inclined  to  the  opin- 
ion that  the  young  ladies  of  Lebedeia  were  the  hand- 
somer. 

At  the  hour  for  retiring  I  was  conducted  to  a  bed,  the 
first  real  bed  that  I  had  seen  since  the  second  morning 
of  my  trip ;  I  hailed  it  as  an  old  friend  met  after  long 
separation.  Also  here  is  an  actual  bedstead,  now  be- 
come quite  a  curiosity  ;  I  grasp  the  posts  to  see  if  they  be 
not  some  phantom  floating  through  my  Greek  dreams.  I 
drop  into  slumber  to  the  music  of  Herkyna,  which  surges 
heavily  through  the  lighter  notes  of  the  falling  showers, 
not  far  distant  from  the  bedroom  window. 

In  the  morning  preserved  citron  with  a  glass  of  water  is 
offered  me,  instead  of  the  cup  of  coffee,  whicli  the  rest 
of  the  family  drink,  but  I  do  not.  As  I  had  often  in- 
quired after  the  beautiful  faces  of  Arachoba,  and  seemed 
interested  in  those  of  Lebedeia,  the  young  lady  appeared 
this  morning  in  full  toilet,  which,  vanity  persisted  in  whis- 
pering, was  just  for  my  benefit.  Bright  colors  danced 
through  her  dress,  which  had  also  a  long  trail ;  then,  too, 
the  Parisian  coiffure  was  not  wanting.  She  certainly  suc- 
ceeded in  surprising  me  with  her  array,  which  was  set  off 
by  red  cheeks,  dark  eyes  and  fairly  proportioned  features. 
She  conducted  me  to  the  loom  which  was  standing  in  a 
small  chamber  with  a  half -woven  garment;  at  my  request 
she  played  upon  the  instrument  with  much  skill,  I  thought. 
The- music  of  the  shuttle  and  beam  made  me  think  of  the 
piano  ;  I  tried  to  describe  the  instrument  upon  which  our 
American  young  ladies  played;  but  she  had  never  seen 
anything  of  the  sort,  and  she  affirmed  that  there  was  no 
such  instrument  in  Lebedeia.  '-Boorish  place,"  she 


STOP  AT  LEBEDEIA.  275 

cried.  Nor  was  there  any  teacher  of  song  or  music  in 
the  town.  After  she  had  shown  her  accomplishments  at 
the  loom,  she  took  me  to  a  large  trunk  which  contained 
all  the  stores  of  her  past  labor  —  quite  a  display  of  mul- 
titudinous finery,  which,  to  be  honest  about  the  matter,  I 
very  imperfectly  understood.  Still  I  paid  her  some  awk-  * 
ward  compliments,  which  she  modestly  received,  and  I 
promised  her  in  return,  when  I  reached  home,  some  speci- 
men of  my  handiwork  in  a  different  line. 

Then  there  was  the  little  girl,  eight  or  nine  years  old, 
who  from  innocent  blue  eyes  gazed  at  the  stranger ;  pretty 
little  thing,  to  me  the  chief  delight  of  the  household.  Re- 
clining at  her  mother's  knees  she  looks  in  childish  won- 
der, with  two  braids  down  her  back.  How  could  I  help 
thinking  of  one  of  the  same  age,  now  separated  from  me 
by  the  continent  and  ocean !  She  goes  to  school,  she 
says,  and  is  ready  to  spell  out  for  me  her  reading  exer- 
cise, somewhat  like  the  last  lesson  I  heard  before  leaving 
home.  Sweet  little  Corallion  with  her  two  braids !  This 
morning,  as  I  came  out  of  my  sleeping  room  she  ran  up 
and  put  into  my  hands  two  flowers  which  she  had  just 
plucked  for  me ;  with  full  eyes  I  leaned  over  and  gave 
her  my  best  reward  —  a  kiss.  Ah,  little  Corallion,  you 
do  not  know  how  home-sick  you  made  me  that  whole  day ! 

But  it  is  not  possible  to  leave  Lebedeia  in  this  weather, 
for  there  is  still  the  threatening  rain  as  well  as  the  swollen 
streams.  Upon  the  hearty  invitation  of  the  host  and  host- 
ess, I  promised  to  remain  with  them  another  day.  There 
is  nothing  to  do  but  to  go  down  town  in  search  of  some 
amusement.  Here  is  a  spacious  coffee-house,  which  no 
citizen  seems  able  to  pass  without  entering ;  a  peep  into 
it  reveals  a  lapge  assemblage  of  men  sitting  at  tables  and 
wreathing  their  heads  in  tobacco  smoke.  Let  us  enter, 
too,  for  nobody  is  excluded ;  here  the  people,  high  and 
low,  are  amusing  themselves.  Drinks  of  various  kinds 
besides  coffee  can  be  obtained;  cards,  backgammon, 
dominoes  add  a  pleasant  condiment  to  the  heavy  hours  of 
a  rainy  day.  There  is  heard  the  buzz  of  many  voices 
speaking  at  once,  not  always  harmonious ;  for  have  we 
not  to  discuss,  with  Greek  vivacity  and  volubility,  that 


276  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

immense  theme,  the  treaty  of  Berlin,  and  the  annexation 
of  Thessaly  and  Epirus?  Thus  the  disputation  grows 
hot  while  the  coffee  gets  cold ;  mouths  even  foam  while 
the  beverage  long  since  has  lost  its  last  bubble.  Town 
politics  is  not  wanting,  for  an  important  election  is  ap- 
proaching ;  several  candidates  wind  around  through  the 
tables  with  their  happiest  smiles  for  the  dear  people. 

No  distinction  of  rank  is  observed  in  the  coffee-house, 
nor  indeed  in  Greece :  the  peasant  and  the  laborer  sit  be- 
side the  officer  and  the  merchant ;  as  for  aristocracy, 
there  is  none.  The  red  fez  is  almost  universal,  European 
costume  is  the  exception.  There  is  a  tradition  here  that 
Lord  Byron  walked  the  streets  of  Lebedeia  in  fez  and 
fustanella.  The  buzz  continues  loud  and  long  from  full 
tables  ;  but  the  emphatic  undertone  of  the  town  can  also 
be  heard  • — the  rushing  and  dashing  of  waters,  for  Herkyna 
plunges  furiously  alongside  the  coffee-house,  washing  its 
very  walls  ;  over  the  stream  a  portico  extends  on  which 
one  will  sit  and  watch  the  whirling  current  fall  and  rise 
with  the  passing  showers.  So  the  nymph  mingles  her 
angry  voice  with  the  Greeks,  as  if  adding  volume  and  de- 
termination, then  madly  dashes  away  under  ~a  bridge  and 
hides  from  the  eye,  still  tossing  her  waters. 

The  traveler  will  seek  to  form  an  acquaintance  with  the 
man  at  his  elbow ;  it  is  not  difficult,  for  all  are  ready  to 
talk,  sometimes  in  a  variety  of  tongues.  The  head  waiter 
is  said  to  speak  six  or  seven  languages,  and  is  the  marvel 
of  the  town.  An  officer  of  the  Greek  Army  sought  to 
practice  with  me  his  little  English,  now  somewhat  rusty. 
He  is  an  old  hunter  of  brigands  on  the  Turkish  border, 
and  hopes  soon  to  cross  the  frontier  in  search  of  a  Turk- 
ish army.  The  Surgeon  also  joins  our  company,  a  man 
of  the  strongest  aspiration  and  enthusiasm ;  he  is  still 
young  and  would  go  to  Paris  with  me  in  order  to  perfect 
himself  in  his  profession,  were  there  not  work  for  him  at 
home  in  the  near  future.  Says  he :  Greece  is  the  only 
civilizer  in  the  East ;  we  cannot  take  our  Greek  provinces 
by  arms,  we  are  too  small;  but  we  are  going  to  conquer 
them  by  light,  by  education  at  our  university  of  Athens, 
by  our  schools,  by  our  literature.  Then  there  will  arise 


STOP  AT  LEBEDEIA.  277 

a  spiritual  union  which  must  in  the  end  bring  about  a 
political  union.  Such  is  the  destiny  of  Greece  once  again 
in  history :  to  civilize  the  Orient. 

Still  Time  has  no  wings  for  flight  on  a  rainy  day  in  a 
country  town ;  he  rolls  over  you  heavily,  crushing  you 
into  the  earth,  or  smiting  you  with  his  hour-glass.  The 
coffee-house  thins  out  at  intervals ;  I  fall  asleep  in  my 
chair,  looking  at  Herkyna,  as  she  sings  her  loud  lullaby. 
A  drowsy  time ;  but  Parnassus  looms  up  yonder,  now 
without  a  cloud ;  the  summit  has  been  cleared  by  the  rain. 
Jn  the  late  afternoon  the  elemental  war  seems  over,  and 
the  skies  beam  with  peace. 

The  housewife,  too,  I  meet  in  a  saunter ;  it  is  Persiphon- 
eia  —  Proserpine.  Indeed!  Your  husband  has  to  thank 
the  Gods  for  that  divine  name ;  it  must  require  much 
goo$  conduct  in  j'outo  overcome  its  suggestion.  Wife  of 
the  Infernal  Regions,  here  of  the  household  ;  so  the  old 
Greek  Goddess  has  impressed  herself  upon  the  modern 
woman.  It  was  at  Lebedeia  that  I  first  heard  the  name 
Elpiuike,  though  known  in  antiquity  as  the  name  of  the 
sister  of  Kimon  ;  often  afterwards  I  heard  it  in  the  Del- 
phic olives.  Plutarch,  too,  still  lives  here,  not  far  from 
his  ancient  abode;  I  saw  him  in  the  coffee-house  of 
Lebedeia,  darting  among  the  tables  in  fez  and  f  ustanella. 

In  accordance  with  my  promise  I  went  to  the  house  of 
my  hostess  early  in  the  evening,  and  remained  with  the 
family.  Nothing  was  spared  which  might  conduce  to  the 
guest's  entertainment  and  comfort;  certainly  it  is  the 
most  generous  hospitality  that  I  have  ever  met  with  any- 
where. The  daughters  are  still  in  gala-dress  ;  whether  in 
honor  of  me  or  of  some  saint  whose  festival  is  to-day  I 
dare  not  inquire.  But  a  merry  time  we  had  sitting  in  the 
room  around  the  fire  with  occasional  sips  of  recinato. 
They  jested  me  about  my  Albanitza  or  Albanian  woman 
whom  I  said  I  was  going  to  take  with  me  to  America ;  the 
witty  hostess  asked  me  in  banter  how  many  pounds  she 
could  carry  —  these  Albanian  women  being  famous  for 
their  strength.  Here  I  observed  some  indications  of  dis- 
cord between  the  Greek  and  Albanian  races.  These 
people  rather  despised  the  Albanians  as  uncultivated  and 


278  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

barbarous ;  the  contempt  is  generally  returned  by  the  lat- 
ter who  consider  the  Greeks  as  effeminate  and  tricky. 
But  the  difference  is  great  in  one  respect :  the  sunny 
atmosphere  of  this  Greek  family  is  a  strong  contrast  to 
the  gloom  of  the  Albanian  hovel,  where  there  is  often  no 
light  except  what  comes  through  the  door.  Here  all  is 
bright,  cheery,  truly  Greek. 

Some  relatives  dropping  in,  there  were  persons  enough 
to  have  a  little  Greek  dance  or  chorus.  The  circle  is 
formed,  the  dancers  wind  about  to  their  own  song  or 
rather  sing-song ;  the  people  seated  around  the  room  join 
in  the  chant.  Then  there  is  at  times  a  verse  with  its 
answer  from  two  different  sets  of  dancers.  Not  much 
can  be  gotten  out  of  it ;  but  I  am  promised  beautiful 
choruses,  that  is  dances,  when  I  come  to  Parnassus. 

The  dance  ceases,  and  we  turn  to  more  sober  things. 
A  Greek  girl  asks  me  about  the  marriage  portion  given  to 
young  ladies  in  my  country.  This  is  a  very  important 
matter  here,  this  matter  of  proika  as  they  term  it.  The 
young  lady  is  always  attached  to  a  dower  by  which  she 
takes  her  rank  in  the  scale  of  being.  To  my  surprise  I 
heard  a  stout  protest  against  this  immemorial  Greek 
usage  ;  a  lively  girl  insisted  very  strongly  upon  love  with- 
out a  marriage  portion  —  to  which  proposition  one  could 
only  give  his  heartiest  assent.  Of  course  I  did  not  dare 
ask  her  whether  she  were  one  of  the  dowerless  ones,  but 
she  divined  my  smile,  and  replied  that  she  had  a  proika, 
I  need  not  laugh. 

But  still  more  emphatic  was  their  condemnation  of 
the  present  position  of  Greek  women ;  particularly  the 
mother  —  a  keen,  lively,  energetic  person —  thought  that 
there  should  be  some  change.  Not  that  they  were  violent 
supporters  of  women's  rights  —  they  did  not  know  what 
that  meant ;  but  there  was  a  feeling  of  the  need  for  the 
industrial  emancipation  of  women.  I  gave  a  little  account 
of  the  station  of  the  American  sister ;  that  is  what  we  want 
to  some  extent,  she  said.  Certain  employments  now 
closed  to  females  should  be  thrown  open  to  them ;  the 
seclusion  of  the  Orient  should  come  to  an  end. 

Also  desire  for  instruction  I  found  there ;  all  had  some 


STOP  AT  LEBEDEIA.  279 

education  and  had  read  a  little.  The  daughter  wanted  to 
study  French;  an  old  text-book  of  that  tongue  was 
brought  out  and  shown  me  ;  it  was  indeed  an  ancient  book 
both  in  type  and  in  method.  There  was  no  teacher  in 
town,  and  my  proposition  to  stay  and  become  her  in- 
structor she  evidently  regarded  as  a  jest.  Such  aspira- 
tion will  be  found  in  that  friendly,  sunny  Greek  house- 
hold, the  joy  of  the  traveler. 

In  the  morning  the  anxious  sojourner  will  first,  when 
he  rises,  shove  the  curtain  aside  and  look  out  of  the  win- 
dow to  see  what  Zeus  commands  him  from  the  skies. 
Not  a  cloud  is  there,  the  rains  are  over,  the  order  to-day 
is  manifestly  to  march,  the  Sun  himself  is  in  the  heavens 
lighting  the  way.  I  have  to  part,  there  is  no  use  of  hesi- 
tation, though  the  hostess  gives  a  pressing  invitation 
to  stay.  I  break  the  pang  of  separation  by  saying  that 
I  may  return  —  well,  I  may.  Good-bye  ;  a  kiss  to  little 
Corallion  who  brings  some  more  flowers ;  she  with  her 
sweet  face  and  two  braids  down  the  back,  stirs  the  wa- 
ters deep  within,  all  unconscious  of  her  power;  I  kiss  in 
hers  a  little  face  5,000  miles  away.  Good-bye;  a  final 
glance  into  the  group  of  dark  eyes  hanging  around  the 
.  door,  and  I  am  off.  Passing  down  the  street  I  look  back 
once  more ;  a  handkerchief  waves  out  of  the  window,  to 
which  a  like  response  is  given ;  then  a  corner  is  turned 
and  that  family  has  become  a  pleasant  dream. 

My  friends,  let  us  stop  for  a  moment,  ere  we  separate, 
and  look  back  at  our  whole  journey  in  its  different  stages. 
We  have  traveled  along  a  geographical  line,  filled  with 
the  fairest  and  most  varied  views  of  Nature,  delightful 
to  our  vision^  but  we  have  also,  I  hope,  traveled  along  a 
spiritual  line  into  which  the  old  Greek  elevated  Nature 
and  of  which  he  made  her  bear  the  impress.  Him  we 
have  sought  to  follow,  first  through  Marathon  with  its 
historical  Deed,  then  back  through  Aulis  with  its  myth- 
ical Deed ;  in  both  we  have  beheld  one  struggle,  that 
with  the  Orient,  and  have  seen  Greece  come  forth  there- 
from new-born,  ever  rising  into  something  truer  and  more 
worthy  spiritually.  Already  to  Helicon  we  have  come  — 


280  A    WALK  Iff  HELLAS. 

the  third  act  of  our  little  drama ;  here,  among  other 
wonders,  we  have  beheld  the  birth  of  the  Gods  them- 
selves, those  who  victoriously  controlled  that  conflict ; 
here  we  have  seen  the  old  Gods  arise  and  be  put  down, 
like  the  East,  like  Nature,  too ;  now  the  new  Gods  are 
sunnily  seated  upon  their  mountain  throne  and  sway  thence 
the  new  world.  This  is  the  new  Hellas,  illuminated  by  a 
new  sun  shining  out  of  the  victory  of  Marathon,  out  of  the 
capture  of  Troy,  out  of  the  subjection  of  Cronus  to 
Zeus ;  quite  the  same  thing  they  all  are  in  Spirit.  Such, 
too,  is  the  key-note  of  happy  Helicon,  heard  in  the  voice 
of  her  Poet,  ancient  Hesiod,  heard  also  in  her  Oracle,  old 
Trophonius.  Still  this  is  but  the  exultant  beginning  of 
the  day,  it  is  the  glorious  sunrise  of  Hellas ;  somewhat, 
we  may  imagine  is  yet  to  follow. 


.  FROM  LEBEDEIA  TO  CH^ERONEIA. 

The  prolonged  stay  in  Lebedeia  has  come  to  an  end, 
and  the  traveler  is  now  stepping  lightly  over  the  highway 
with  a  new  view  in  his  eye  and  a  new  hope  in  his  heart. 
The  stress  of  weather  which  forced  such  a  lengthy  delay 
was  a  blessing  doubtless,  but  one  of  those  blessings 
which  are  not  appreciated  at  the  time  ;  they  must  be  past 
before  they  can  be  rightly  valued.  Irksome  hours  those 
were  often,  with  Parnassus  in  view,  but  unattainable. 
But  now  we  have  started  again  upon  our  light-hearted 
quest ;  a  happy  journey  we  pray  it  to  be  still,  radiant 
with  joyous  visions,  yet  filled  with  an  earnest  purpose ; 
assuredly  that  image,  so  long  pursued,  is  still  fleeing  be- 
fore us,  not 'yet  overtaken.  Down  the  Great  Road  we 
pass  in  solitary  joy;  the  music  of  Herkyna,  the  wild 
babbler,  faintly  sounds  out  of  the  distance,  as  if  to  entice 
the  wayfarer  back ;  the  fair  nymph  excites,  it  must  be 
confessed,  a  momentary  regret  at  parting,  but  her  charms 
must  not  detain  us  longer.  The  clouds  have  fled,  the  sun 
is  keeping  a  festival  over  the  hills,  the  air  is  full  of  wine, 
and  man  has  nought  to  do  but  to  be  hilarious  along 
with  the  Gods. 

(281) 


282  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

We  shall  now  have  to  leave  the  Great  Road,  which  has 
been  so  long  in  our  company,  and  has  so  kindly  laid  itself 
down  under  our  feet,  as  if  it  made  itself  just  as  we  needed 
it ;  but  here  it  gives  a  gentle  turn,  as  if  unwilling  to  quit 
our  society,  and  crawls  around  a  hill,  where  it  disappears 
in  a  direction  whither  we  can  not  follow.  We  run  down 
its  embankment  and  enter  a  thicket  of  low  brushwood, 
through  which  winds  the  mule-path  conducting  us  toward 
the  plain  of  Kephissus.  It  is  the  old  kind  of  narrow 
bush-wreathed  way  which  led  us  such  a  devious  course  in 
the  early  part  of  our  journey.  Clamber  over  the  stones, 
push  through  the  branches —  their  hostility  is  but  feigned, 
they  will  retire  before  you  with  a  laugh,  if  you  keep  up 
your  Greek  mood. 

Emerging  from  a  little  glen,  the  traveler  will  overtake 
a  couple  of , Greek  soldiers,  for  these  roads  are  always 
kept  patrolled.  Quite  different  was  the  old  Greek  soldier 
who  marched  up  this  valley  to  famous  battle-fields.  The 
modern  uniform  is  very  like  that  of  the  American  soldier ; 
here  are  the  blue  cap,  blouse  and  trousers,  with  musket 
and  knapsack ;  nor  can  one  omit  to  notice  the  broad-bot- 
tomed shoe,  a  very  familiar  object  in  other  times.  Those 
muskets  winding  around  through  the  bushes  with  the  blue 
garments  vanishing  among  the  leaves,  seem  a  shred  of 
our  own  Civil  War  dropped  suddenly  into  this  Hellenic 
landscape. 

But  the  old  is  still  in  the  new  even  here,  and  that  too 
in  the  most  emphatic  manner.  This  Greek  soldier  is 
indeed  a  descendant  of  the  ancient  one,  did  we  truly 
trace  the  genealogy.  If  he  had  appeared  on  the  field  of 
Chaeroneia  with  his  loud- resounding  death-dealing  mus- 
ketry fire,  he  would  have  been  considered  a  demon  armed 
with  Jove's  thunderbolts ;  some  demon  has  stolen  the 
weapons  of  Zeus  from  the  forge  of  the  Cyclops,  the 
frightened  Hoplites  would  say,  and  at  once  take  to  flight. 
The  old  my  thus,  the  spiritual  image  of  what  is  to  be,  has 
now  become  realitjr,  and  no  longer  hovers  a  poetic  dream 
over  the  Greek  fields  and  mountains ;  here  it  is  an  actual 
thing  right  at  the  foot  of  Parnassus.  We  moderns  have 
indeed  stolen  the  weapons  of  Zeus,  and  have  become  even 


FROM  LEBEDEIA   TO   CH^EliONEIA.  283 

mightier  than  the  God ;  thus  man  ever  must  do,  must 
realize  the  divine  upon  earth,  bringing  it  down  from  the 
skies ;  he  has  in  the  truest  sense  naught  else  to  do.  The 
old  Greek  soldier  had  in  his  worship,  when  he  prayed  to 
Zeus  the  Highest  on  that  fatal  day  of  Chaeroneia,  the 
prophecy  of  this  modern  Greek  soldier  carrying  gun  and 
cartridge  box.  Thus  the  sacred  arms  drop  from  heaven 
and  remain  thenceforth  terrestrial,  according  to  holy 
legend  itself ;  what  is  adored  by  one  age  as  godlike  is 
revealed  to  another  age  as  human.  In  such  way  has  our 
modern  life  realized  Homer's  divinities,  being  true  divini- 
ties once  because  they  had  just  this  germ  of  reality  in 
them.  So  our  Greek  soldier,  an  humble  private  in  the 
ranks,  trudges  along  in  blue  uniform,  with  rattling  cart- 
ridges in  his  box,  all  unconscious  that  he  is  armed  with 
Jove's  thunderbolts,  mightiest  weapons  of  the  old  Gods. 

But  as  you  halt  for  a  moment  between  two  bushes,  look 
up  to  the  horizon  ;  there  you  can  not  help  seeing  another 
transmutation  even  more  wonderful.  On  this  side  lies 
Helicon,  yonder  towers  Parnassus ;  both  are  seats  of  the 
Muses,  it  was  said  of  old.  There  the  two  mountains 
actually  rest,  filling  so  much  space  in  the  vision,  yet  under 
our  very  eye  they  seem  to  change  into  something  beyond 
themselves,  into  something  better,  more  beautiful  than 
themselves,  dissolving  out  of  nature  musically  into  an 
image.  Thus  they  continue  to  do  at  every  glance ;  what 
does  it  mean?  repeatedly  asks  the  astonished  beholder. 
That  must  be  the  touch-of  the  Muse,  touching  her  own 
mountains  and  transforming  them  from  rude  rocks  into 
her  seats  forever.  Yet  what  does  that  mean?  he  will 
again  ask,  and  you  too  will  ask  probably,  being  as  much 
mystified  as'he. 

But  a  few  miles  apart  the  two  summits  lie,  easily  visible, 
nay  audible  to  each  other,  one  will  think.  They  seem  to 
be  engaged  in  a  sort  of  carmen  amcebwum,  or  rival  song, 
like  the  two  shepherds  of  Theocritus  who  stand  opposite 
and  sing;  thus  echoes  rise  out  of  the  two  ranges  and 
mingle  over  the  valley.  The  umpire,  too,  is  worthy  of 
mention ;  nothing  more  or  less  than  the  world  which  has 
been  listening  to  these  mountains  ever  since  the  first  song 


284  A    WALK  IN  BELLAS. 

which  they  sang  to  each  other.  When  was  that?  Very 
difficult  to  tell ;  but  we  still  catch  the  echoes  going  back 
some  eight  or  ten  centuries  before  the  Christian  Era.  A 
conflict  it  was  clearly,  a  conflict  for  the  seat  of  the  Muses  ; 
here  it  arose  among  the  people  on  the  opposite  sides  of 
this  valley ;  a  deep,  intense  struggle  we  may  well  imagine 
it,  for  the  possession  of  the  true  shrine  of  the  sacred 
Sisters.  Yet  it  was  just  the  problem  which  these  people 
had  to  settle  for  themselves  and  for  all  mankind ;  it  was 
just  their  stage  of  development  which  commanded  them 
to  seat  the  Muses  upon  these  summits  where  the  latter 
have  remained  to  this  day.  I  venture  to  think  that  in 
that  ancient  rivalry,  the  woodland  slopes  resounded  with 
never-ceasing  strains,  and  this  valley  was  filled  with  a 
continuous  music  of  pipe  and  song ;  for  it  was  the  life- 
work  of  the  people  to  do  this  and  nothing  else,  to  give  a 
seat  to  the  Muses  upon  our  earth ;  and  well  have  they 
done  their  work  if  we  may  judge  of  it  by  its  durability. 

But  which  of  the  two  mountains  won  in  the  contest  ? 
The  judgment  has  been  rendered,  and  we  all  know  it ; 
like  the  umpire  in  the  idyl  already  mentioned,  the  world 
has  concluded  to  call  both  mountains  the  seats  of  the 
Muses  ;  both  have  won  the  prize.  Ancient  Hesiod  sang 
upon  Helicon,  as  we  have  before  noted  ;  what  Parnassus 
has  in  store  for  us  in  our  journey,  we  shall  wait  for  with 
no  small  degree  of  expectancy. 

It  is,  indeed,  one  of  the  greatest  wonders,  this  trans- 
mutation. How  have  ye,  O  hills,  become  eternal,  not 
as  granite,  but  as  an  image,  which  floats  through  and 
wings  the  beautiful  utterance  of  all  lands?  You  seem  not 
yourselves,  but  are  at  once  transfigured  into  spiritual 
things ;  rock  you  are,  I  see  and  feel ;  the  dull  swain  and 
his  herds  trample  you  daily  with  ignoble  feet,  yet  you  are 
not  as  other  hills ;  who  gave  to  yon  pinions  to  traverse 
the  whole  earth,  and  fly  down  all  time  —  just  to  you  and 
to  nought  beside?  It  is  the  work  of  the  Muse,  weaving 
thereof  her  garment  of  beauty  ;  she  transmutes  the  rugged 
bare  cliff  into  her  radiant  vesture,  and  the  very  stones 
turn  to  words  which  are  everlasting. 

Such  is,  indeed,  all  Greece,  and  not  merely  this  spot ; 


FROM  LEBEDEIA   TO   CHJERONEIA.  285 

such  is,  too,  the  traveler,  a  little  exalted,  I  think,  as  if  he 
also  were  trying  to  elevate  himself  to  yonder  peak  of  the 
Muses,  and  to  transform  his  own  stony  speech  into  their 
breathings.  But  if  you  are  fair  to  him,  you  will  say  that 
therein  he  is  only  trying  to  do  his  duty  in  this  land.  Na- 
ture here  is  no  longer  an  outer  world  merely,  but  suffers 
a  rich  sky-change  into  a  Beyond,  though  remaining  always 
herself.  For  when  I  say  Helicon,  do  I  mean  yon  tower- 
ing rock  only  ?  Impossible ;  I  cannot  utter  the  word,  I 
cannot  even  see  the  thing,  without  feeling  at  the  same 
time  a  transfiguration  of  the  vision,  a  vanishing  of  the 
natural  into  the  spiritual.  It  is  the  exaltation  of  Nature 
into  the  mythus  on  the  spot ;  before  you  everywhere  the 
old  mythology  springs  up  in  native  spontaneity ;  and  you 
yourself  become  a  mythus  —  must  become  one,  if  you 
truly  travel  in  Greece. 

Mythus  —  I  say  not  myth ;  let  us  attempt  to  restore 
the  word  to  its  original  birthright,  by  restoring  its'  origi- 
nal form.  Myth  means  falsehood  ;  mythus  means  truth, 
or  the  utterance  of  it  through  the  image.  Originally  it 
meant  the  Word,  sacred,  mysterious  Word  in  which  was 
imaged  the  world  of  spirit  by  the  Poet  or  Maker.  Its 
lost  soul  let  us  restore,  which  we  ought  to  do,  with  Par- 
nassus in  sight. 

Whither  now  ?  Yonder  is  the  veritable  Parnassus  with 
his  immense  head  of  snow,  not  a  cloud  at  present  rests 
upon  the  summit ;  the  glistening  crystals  shoot  their 
radiance  into  the  eye,  fiercely  yet  with  some  deep  fascina- 
tion. Thither  we  must  go  ;  the  direction  which  the  people 
give,  is  to  pass  by  a  narrow  path  over  the  intervening 
hill  into  the  valley  of  the  Kephissus  —  Boeotian,  not 
Attic  Kephissus.  There  is  Chaeroneia,  which  is  worthy 
of  a  view,  particularly  its  Lion  of  stone.  Thence  we  can 
still,  to-day,  reach  Daulis  at  the  foot  of  the  Parnassian 
range.  My  kind  host  of  Lebedeia  has  placed  in  my 
hands  letters  of  introduction  to  his  friends  along  the  road, 
the  first  that  I  have  had.  Such  letters  are  usually  pro- 
cured at  Athens,  often  from  the  government ;  I  started 
without  them.  The  result  is,  that  I  have  been  allowed 
to  wander  at  my  own  sweet  will  undisturbed  by  the  at- 


2«S('>  A    WALK  IN  HKLLAS. 

tention  of  any  official.  I  turn  about  often  and  look  at 
Lebedeia ;  pleasant  town,  lying  at  the  foot  of  Helicon, 
whose  tops  are  sprinkled  with  snow  —  town  full  of  de- 
lightful memories.  It  passes  out  of  sight ;  the  traveler 
finds  himself  in  the  Kephissian  vale,  a  new  little  Greek 
world. 

Far  across  its  level  expanse  filled  with  a  sunny  repose 
lie  villages  on  hilly  slants,  memorable  in  antiquity ;  through 
the  plain  straggles  Kephissus,  winding  like  a  glistening 
snake  among  his  reeds.  It  is  Sunday  morning  —  in  the 
literal  sense  a  day  of  the  Sun,  who  seems  to  be  strewing 
his  tranquil  light  in  his  sweetest  mood.  But  this  plain 
has  been  a  terrific  battle-field  for  Greek,  Roman,  Barbar- 
ian ;  one  thinks  still  of  the  tumult  of  war,  of  desperate 
conflict,  in  contrast  to  the  present  repose.  But  we  shall 
not  go  across  it,  though  we  may  make  many  a  little  ex- 
cursion out  into  it,  among  its  flocks  and  its  cultivated 
fields  ;  —  yet,  on  the  whole,  it  seems  rather  uncultivated. 
Keep  along  close  to  the  foot  of  this  low  range  of  hills 
lying  between  Helicon  and  Parnassus,  else  we  may  miss 
our  destination.  Warriors  surge  through  the  sunlight 
darkening  it,  as  by  a  faint  shadow  cast  from  their  ghosts  ; 
but  there  is  one  image  that  will  not  out  of  the  mind  —  a 
peaceful,  sunlit  image ;  it  is  that  of  Plutarch,  a  native 
here,  whose  memory  still  lurks  in  the  sunniest  spots,  and 
fills  them  with  a  new  splendor. 

'  Skirting  the  low  hills  in  sunshine,  one  gets  attuned  to 
the  happy  nature,  which  seems  to  be  making  up  for  having 
been  darkened  so  long  by  the  clouds.  The  sun  comes 
out  as  if  he  were  atoning  by  his  shining  deeds  for  some 
misdemeanor,  and  were  determined  never  to  be  guilty  of 
hiding  his  face  again.  Glance  up  the  sunny  slopes,  look 
across  the  level  valley,  behold  the  snowy  peaks  —  there  is 
variety  enough  to  occupy  you  with  its  music.  For  some 
days  the  traveler  seemed  lost  in  the  storm,  now  he  has 
found  himself  again.  It  is  like  an  ancient  dramatic  festi- 
val which  from  dark  tragic  deeds,  fitful  strokes  of  fate, 
bursts  into  sudden  joy  and  comic  hilarity.  What  is  the 
man  thinking  of  while  he  is  passing  along?  It  can  hardly 
be  called  thought,  it  is  rather  enjoyment  —  the  happy 


FEOM  LEBEDEIA    TO    CH^EEONEIA.  287 

balance  between  his  senses  and  soul,  in  which  both  make 
one  melody  and  are  not  seeking  to  cast  each  other  out,  as 
if  one  or  both  were  devils.  Many  images  indeed  dart 
through  the  mind ;  it  would  be  a  motley  picture,  could  it 
be  painted — rather  a  whole  pallet  full  of  paints  dashed  on 
the  canvas  in  some  instinctive  harmony.  No  definite 
picture  there  is,  but  enjoyment,  a  delightful  mood,  filled 
up  with  the  sun,  field,  mountain  —  mood  of  Greek  strains 
to  be  enjoyed,  possibly  to  be  communicated,  not  to  be 
portrayed. 

While  going  along  the  bushy  path,  I  fell  into  a 
curious  conversation  with  one  of  the  soldiers,  a  man 
of  some  education  and  who  had  his  own  ideas  about  this 
world,  one  of  which  has  taken  complete  possession  of 
him.  It  is  that  civilization  is  not  a  good,  but  an  evil 
to  man,  and  that  it  would  be  far  better  if  the  human 
race  remained  in  primitive  ignorance  and  innocence. 
The  tree  of  knowledge  has  yielded  him  only  bitter  fruit 
so  far  as  he  has  tasted  of  it,  and  he  maintains  that  the 
nations  which  have  existed  in  the  past,  particularly 
old  Hellas,  perished  by  refinement  of  intelligence. 
Nor  is  he  slow  in  predicting  the  same  grand  cataclysm 
for  the  present  order  of  things ;  the  world  is  too  wise 
to  exist.  Truly  here  is  a  man  who  has  fallen  out  with 
the  new  Gods  and  wishes  to  return  to  the  old  ones  — 
to  the  reign  of  Cronus,  and  that  primordial  state  of  felicity 
which  knows  nothing,  nothing  even  of  itself.  "Yes," 
says  he,  "  Hellas  must  sink  again,  there  is  too  much  edu- 
cation already  here,  it  must  sink  again."  So  he  spake 
with  foreboding,  and  with  extraordinary  terror  at  his 
country's  intellectual  illumination.  I  looked  up,  behold 
we  were  in  the  plain  of  Chseroneia,  an  ominous  name 
which  still  startles  the  sympathetic  traveler,  the  most 
ominous  name  in  Grecian  History. 

Thus  one  in  mood  now  clouded,  saunters  along  for  a 
couple  of  hours  over  the  plain  till  he  pass  around  the  bend 
of  a  hill  when  he  beholds  the  houses  of  a  small  village. 
This  he  will  recognize  to  be  Capurna,  ancient  Chaeroneia. 
He  will  move  to  the  side  of  the  road  where  a  tumulus 
which  has  been  excavated  arrests  his  attention ;  going 


288  A    WALK  IiV  HELLAS. 

within  the  inclosure,  he  will  behold  the  Chceroneian  Lion, 
prostrate  on  the  earth,  and  broken  to  fragments.  We  are 
then  on  the  battle-field  of  Chaeroneia,  where  the  Greek 
world  received  its  death-blow  at  the  hands  of  Philip ;  we 
stand  upon  the  very  tomb  of  the  Greeks  who  gave  their 
lives  for  their  faith  in  Hellenic  worth  ;  indeed  here  is  the 
very  monument  of  the  Theban  Sacred  Band,  who  are  said 
to  have  fallen  to  the  last  man  upon  this  spot  and  are  buried 
beneath  us. 

Fate  then  has  come  at  last ;  Fate  so  long  prophesied  in 
the  books  of  Greece,  so  long  imaged  in  her  poetry,  so 
long  threatening  from  the  Orient,  but  always  valiantly 
repelled,  has  indeed  arrived.  Here  it  is,  behold  its  dark 
approach  to  this  plain  from  the  North  like  a  whirlwind  — 
Philip  with  his  phalanx  coming  down  from  Macedon. 
Greece  can  not  resist  him,  she  becomes  a  tragedy,  such 
as  was  often  adumbrated  by  her  poets,  now  a  real  tragedy. 
Deepest  grain  in  Greek  character  is  that  Fate,  going  back 
in  manifold  forms  to  the  mythic  times ;  Achilles  we  rec- 
ollect lamenting  his  destiny  and  prophesying  his  own 
death ;  he  touched  the  profoundest  note  of  his  people  and 
hinted  their  destiny  in  that  of  himself,  their  ideal  hero ; 
but  Fate  here  becomes  reality.  Henceforth  Fate  is 
supreme,  must  be  placed  even  above  Zeus  now,  if  not  be- 
fore ;  for  the  Gods  of  Greece  are  subjugated,  and  from 
this  time  on  may  as  well  shut  up  Olympus.  For  what  is 
a  conquered  God? 

From  the  battle  of  Chaeroneia,  which  was  fought  in  the 
year  338  B.  C.  between  Philip  and  the  Greeks,  dates  the 
loss  of  Greek  freedom,  as  the  books  say.  True  ;  yet  we 
may  be  assured  that  something  else  had  been  lost  before, 
that  this  grand  defeat  was  but  the  outer  blow  which  merely 
put  an  end  to  that  which  was  already  dead  within.  Such 
are  usually  the  great  battles  of  History  —  the  finishing 
stroke  to  a  body  whose  spirit  has  really  departed.  Let 
the  corpse  no  longer  cumber  my  earth,  says  the  world- 
judge,  and  thereupon  he  sends  some  executioner,  often  a 
horde  of  barbarians  with  fire  and  sword,  to  bring  the  ghastly 
spectacle  to  a  termination.  Greek  freedom  perished  on 
this  fatal  field  of  Chseroneia,  but  all  which  made  Greece 


FEOM  LEBEDEIA   TO   CH^EKONEIA.  289 

worthy  of  freedom  had   already  perished,  otherwise  the 
finality  could  not  have  been  here. 

That  autonomy  for  which  Greece  had  fought  and  suf- 
fered so  much,  now  comes  to  an  end,  having  fulfilled  its 
mission.  The  most  beautiful  political  flower  of  the 
World's  History:  such  is  the  common  shout  of  admira- 
tion among  men.  But  it  is  now  smitten  by  an  outsider, 
the  Macedonian  Philip,  who  has  inherited  Greek  intelli- 
gence and  Greek  organization  and  transferred  it  to 
Macedon,  a  foreign  and  hostile  land.  Moreover  he  is  the 
One  Man,  not  the  Few  nor  the  Many ;  an  absolute  ruler 
has  arisen,  determiner  of  Grecian  destinies ;  two  qualities 
he  has  which  are  the  death  of  the  old  Greek  political 
spirit,  he  is  a  foreigner  and  an  irresponsible  monarch. 
So  the  star  which  we  saw  rise  at  Marathon  sets  at 
Chaeroneia. 

We  ask  on  this  battle-field,  where  is  the  mighty  indi- 
vidual to  meet  Philip?  who  commanded  here,  whose  brain 
controlled?  Alas!  there  is  no  Great  Man  any  more. 
Greece  has  ceased  to  produce  mighty  individuals,  those 
great  men  of  action  who  were  once  only  too  abundant  — 
so  many  of  them  indeed  that  Athens  had  to  get  rid  of 
some  of  hers  by  ostracism.  But  that  was  just  the  glory 
of  Greece,  her  function  in  the  World's  History:  to  rear 
mighty  individualities.  Now  she  has  become  barren  of 
them  ;  she  no  longer  produces  that  which  she  was  called 
to  produce ;  it  is  indeed  high  time  that  her  career  should 
close.  Having  ceased  to  bear  great  men,  let  her  cease 
to  be :  such  is  the  oracle  distinctly  pronounced  upon  this 
battle-field.  Thebans  were  here,  the  Sacred  Band  of 
Theban  youth  perished  to  a  man,  and  lie  buried  under 
yonder  Lion  ,of  Stone ;  but  they  were  here  without  an 
Epaminondas,  and  their  desperate  valor  availed  nought. 
Athenians  were  here,  but  with  whom?  Not  with  a  Mil- 
tiades  —  woe  be  to  them;  but  with  Demosthenes,  a  great 
talker  —  indeed  rather  the  greatest  talker  of  all  time  — 
such  greatness  only  can  Athens  now  produce.  If  Philip 
could  be  talked  down,  clearly  Demosthenes  was  the  man, 
the  very  best  man  that  ever  was  born  to  do  the  work.  He 
tried  to  do  it  for  fourteen  years  with  thunderous  philip- 

19 


290  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

pics,  so  called  from  this  very  Philip :  speeches  which  have 
been  the  wonder  of  the  world.  But  the  outcome  of  his 
magnificent  oratory  was  Chaeroneia ;  words,  the  words  of 
even  a  Demosthenes,  are  no  match  for  deeds,  the  deeds 
of  even  a  Philip.  Yet  do  not  underrate  the  value  of  talk, 
great  speech  is  still  greatness  when  in  its  true  field,  though 
it  cannot  take  the  place  of  great  action.  I  would  not 
disparage  talk,  if  it  be  not  too  much  and  too  diluted ;  we 
all  talk,  I  cannot  hide  the  fact  that  I  am  talking  now ;  so 
I  would  not  have  you  underrate  the  value  of  talk,  particu- 
larly of  these  talks  upon  Hellas. 

Meantime,  the  modern  Greek  soldier  has  passed  on  out 
of  sight,  still  uttering  his  doleful  prophecies,  believing 
that  there  is  too  much  education  and  not  enough  igno- 
rance in  Greece.  Civilization  brings  on  always  a  battle 
of  Chaeroueia,  he  thinks ;  thus  the  new  Hellas  is  soon 
destined  to  end  in  a  mighty  overturn  like  the  old  one ; 
the  essence  of  true  wisdom  lies  in  the  lack  of  knowledge : 
such  is  his  faith.  But  from  a  far  different  cause  ancient 
Greece  fell ;  and  modern  Greece  disjointed,  and  scattered 
as  it  is,  excites  in  our  hearts  a  hope  of  far  different  re- 
sults. Turn  about  now  and  look  at  the  Chaeroneian 
Lion. 

Here,  then,  it  lies  on  the  very  spot  where  the  ancient 
traveler  saw  it  and  wondered  at  its  power ;  it  still  typi- 
fied  with  fierce  energy  the  spirit  of  the  men  that  lay  be- 
neath. Then  for  a  thousand  years  it  disappeared  under 
the  soil,  covered  up  by  the  gentle  action  of  the  rains  and 
frost,  or  it  may  be,  buried  by  some  tender  hand,  as  if  for 
a  remote  future  time  which  would  unearth  it  and  possi- 
bly make  it  live  again.  No  modern  traveler  before  the 
present  century  or  the  Greek  Revolution  speaks  of  it,  — 
merely  the  tumulus  lay  there  undisturbed.  The  manner 
in  which  it  came  to  light  in  recent  times  is  curious :  a 
fragment  of  its  marble  body  protruded  suddenly  from 
the  ground  during  the  late  war  for  Hellenic  freedom  ;  an 
excavation  was  made,  and  a  Greek  chieftain  is  said  to 
have  broken  it  to  pieces  in  the  hope  of  finding  concealed 
treasure  in  its  cavity. 

Thus  the  Lion  still  remains  lying  on  his  back,  in  frag- 


FEOM  LE 'BE DEI A    TO   CH^EEONEIA.  291 

ments ;  head,  breast  and  mane  are  yet  entire,  of  enor- 
mous bulk ;  the  head  seems  four  feet  through  as  I  stand 
alongside  of  it  and  measure  its  size  by  my  own  height. 
Its  surface  yet  shows  signs  of  ancient  storms  during  these 
hundreds  of  years  that  it  stood  guard  over  the  tomb, 
grinning  and  growling  even  in  death.  What  a  symbol 
of  that  ancient  day  of  Chaeroneia !  what  a  symbol  still. 
Truly  it  is  an  utterance  of  Grecian  despair  at  that  time ; 
a  work  of  art ;  nor  is  it  without  significance  to-day,  as  it 
lies  in  pieces  upon  the  ground.  The  dying  Lion  pre- 
figured the  dying  Greek  world  then;  now  even  the 
symbol  is  broken  to  fragments,  —  thus  it  has  become  the 
symbol  of  a  symbol,  for  the  work  of  that  old  Greek 
world  is  at  present  but  fragments  — fragments  of  the  Lion. 

The  effect  is  certainly  strong  in  these  massive  features, 
particularly  about  the  jaws :  bitter  agony  there  is  com- 
bined with  stubborn  ferocity.  Then,  too,  its  present  at- 
titude makes  it  all  the  more  striking ;  it  looks  as  if  by 
some  violent  thrust  it  had  reeled  over  on  its  back  and  is 
now  dying.  Here  is  a  monument  that  works  like  a 
prophecy  of  the  fate  of  ancient  Greece  ;  looking  back  more 
than  2,000  years  we  wonder  at  the  power  with  which  the 
sculptor  has  told  his  story,  and  embodied  the  belief  of 
his  time :  it  says  that  the  Greek  Lion  is  dying,  dying  on 
this  field  of  Chaeroneia.  It  stood  above  the  ancient 
tomb,  erect,  still  defiant,  for  over  500  years  after  the 
battle,  when  it  was  seen  by  an  ancient  traveler ;  now  it 
lies  prpstrate  in  fragments,  being  smitten  by  a  new  blow 
just  as  it  came  to  light  in  a  new  world. 

No  patriotic  inscription  was  engraved  upon  it  in  an- 
tiquity we  are  told ;  nor  was  there  need  of  any.  Even 
in  the  presence  of  the  Macedonian  victor  all  is  told  by 
the  Lion.  Look  at  the  eye,  though  much  worn  by  the 
weather,  it  is  still  weeping,  it  still  has  a  cry  of  anguish, 
if  we  note  carefully  the  expression ;  mingled  with  its 
pain  is  the  growl  of  wrath  against  the  barbarian  con- 
queror. Writers  have  asked  to  have  the  pieces  removed 
to  Athens  and  set  up  in  a  Museum,  after  being  put  to- 
gether again ;  such  a  procedure  might  tend  to  the  preserv- 
ation of  the  precious  work,  but  I  doubt  whether  it  could 


292  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

produce  half  the  impression  that  it  does  here  on  the  spot 
where  the  Lion  was  pierced,  under  this  strong  sun  now 
beating  down  on  the  foot  of  the  hills.  Rolled  over  on  its 
back,  in  a  death  struggle,  smitten  to  fragments  which 
still  growl  —  that  is  its  power. 

Recent  chippiugs  from  the  body  I  notice ;  alas !  it  will 
not  lie  here  much  longer ;  the  rude  peasant  boy  and  the 
barbarous  tourist  will  yet  continue  to  lacerate  the  Lion 
as  he  lies  in  agony ;  soon  therefore  his  members  will  be 
dispersed  to  remotest  quarters  of  the  globe.  Here  is  an 
immense  foot  with  its  four  claws,  lying  several  yards 
from  the  body ;  sympathetically  one  will  pick  it  up  and 
seek  to  restore  it  to  its  place  as  nearly  as  possible.  A 
broken  hind  leg  lies  yonder,  struggling  to  be_  restored  it 
seems  still ;  but  it  is  too  heavy  to  be  lifted  by  one  pair  of 
arms  however  eager.  A  dozen  large  fragments  can  be 
counted,  as  they  lie  scattered  about  the  stony  carcass  — 
what  is  it  but  dismembered  Greece,  which  no  foreigner, 
whatever  be  his  love,  can  unite  by  outside  piecing? 

The  mound  has  been  rudely  excavated,  and  in  the  ex- 
cavation lies  the  fragmentary  body.  Strange,  that  when 
the  Greek  Lion  comes  to  light  again  in  modern  times,  it 
should  be  merely  a  heap  of  pieces.  Yet  such  is  the  case 
universally  in  regard  to  Greece.  Greek  history,  Greek 
poetry,  Greek  art,  the  Greek  world  in  all  our  modern 
excavations,  reveal  only  the  beautiful  fragments.  And 
the  new  resurrection  of  Greece  to  nationality  —  what  has 
it  revealed  as  yet  but  fragments  of  the  old  Greek. Lion? 
Still  they  are  genuine  Greek  fragments,  with  their  aid 
we  can  often  reconstruct  the  Greek  Lion ;  for  even  from 
this  claw  we  may  obtain  some  image  of  what  he  was  when 
alive  in  all  his  strength  and  undaunted  energy. 

While  I  sit  there  looking  at  the  fragments,  a  man  comes 
along,  a  Chseroneian,  and  begins  to  talk  to  me.  With 
curiosity  he  asks  me  why  I  am  gazing  so  intently  on  the 
Lion,  what  I  am  doing  here,  whence  I  come?  His  last 
question  only  I  answer,  when  he  bursts  out  suddenly: 
Why  do  not  you  Americans  come  and  help  us  fight  the 
Turks  who  refuse  to  render  us  our  own  —  our  Thessaly, 
our  Islands,  our  Epirus,  our  Constantinople?  I  proceed 


FROM  LK  BE  DEI  A    TO    CH^ERONEIA.  293 

to  give  a  little  idea  of  the  difficulty  of  such  an  attempt, 
but  it  hardly  satisfies  him ;  he  utters  a  growl  leaning  on 
the  Lion's  head,  a  deep,  fierce  growl  against  the  Turk, 
and  speaks  with  despair  of  the  scattered  fragments  of  the 
Hellenic  nation. 

Such  is  the  modern  lament  heard  at  this  moment  in  the 
town  of  Chseroneia  in  strange  unison  with  the  ancient 
lament  heard  in  -the  voice  of  the  Lion.  Here  at  this 
passage  through  the  valley  the  barbarians  of  the  North 
entered,  the  final  desperate  conflict  was  fought  unsuccess- 
fully —  the  Lion  still  growling  in  the  throes  of  death  ;  and 
when  Barbarism  came  in,  Greece  was  at  an  end,  was 
shivered  to  fragments,  and  has  thus  remained  even  in  its 
modern  resurrection ;  for  hardly  one-fifth  of  the  Greeks 
belong  to  free  Greece.  So  this  man  before  me  is  a  frag- 
ment of  the  old  Greek,  he  wears  fragments  of  the  ancient 
costume  ;  but  above  all,  he  speaks  the  old  tongue,  broken 
to  pieces  like  this  Lion,  yet  in  its  expressiveness  still 
recalling  ancient  utterances.  The  rent  trunk  of  the  tree 
is  still  green  and  sends  forth  new  buds  —  there  is  indeed 
hope,  and  his  very  speech  shows  it  now.  So  I  say  to  him : 
"  Patience,  oh  friend  ;  I  prophesy  that  you  will  yet  put 
together  the  broken  Lion ;  it  lies  here  still,  sending  forth 
its  fierce  growls,  looking  up  into  the  clear  blue  heaven  at 
the  promise  of  retribution  and  restoration,  praying  as  if 
for  help  from  the  Highest.  Where  is  Philip  now?  Where 
will  be  the  Turk?  See,  these  fragments  yet  live,  and  call 
aloud  for  help ;  they  have  obtained  even  partial  resurrec- 
tion ;  put  them  now  together.  Lofty  Parnassus  yonder 
across  the  valley  looks  down  upon  you  eternally  with  sym- 
pathetic joy  —  and  what  it  smiles  upon  will  live  forever." 

The  man  was  probably  not  used  to  that  sort  of  address, 
still  he  must  have  understood  me,  for  he  asked  in  astonish- 
ment: "  What,  do  you  know  that?  I  believe  so,  too,  for 
it  is  said  here  that  the  Great  Saint  will  soon  come  from 
the  City  (Constantinople)  after  having  driven  out  the 
Turk;  he  will  pass  through  our  village,  Capurna,  and 
after  service  in  the  church,  he  will  put  together  the  Lion, 
and  baptize  him,  when  there  will  be  a  long  time  of  peace 
and  plenty,  and  no  work  on  holidays."  In  some  such 


294  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

way  the  legend  ran,  as  he  told  it,  unless  he  manufactured 
the  story  on  the  spot  for  the  credulous  stranger.  At 
least  it  expresses  the  modern  Hellenic  faith  in  national 
restoration,  and  the  fervent  prayer  of  the  traveler  is :  May 
the  Chaeroneian  Lion  again  have  all  its  scattered  members 
brought  together,  and  breathe  with  the  same  vital  all- 
conquering  energy  as  of  old. 

But  while  we  are  looking  at  the  fragments  of  the  Lion, 
a  joyful  sound  begins  to  rise  up  from  the  village,  borne 
on  the  sunbeams  which  seem  to  mingle  with  it  caressingly. 
It  is  a  musical  sound,  though  rude ;  somewhat  like  the 
tones  of  the  bagpipe,  steadied  with  regular  taps  on  a 
drum.  It  is  a  strange  music ;  sometimes  too  are  heard 
the  notes  of  a  song.  What  is  the  meaning  of  it?  My 
informant  tells  me  that  there  is  to  be  a  wedding  to-day  at 
Chaeroneia  —  a  very  important  event  there,  and  that  these 
sounds  are  the  merry  prelude  of  the  nuptials.  Thither 
accordingly  we  must  go,  with  some  haste,  for  all  of  it  must 
be  seen.  Still  that  ancient  question  asked  in  the  Odyssey 
by  Ulysses :  Is  it  a  wedding?  may  be  asked  this  very  day 
at  Chseroneia  by  the  casual  wayfarer  as  he  hears  the  joy- 
ful notes  of  song  and  music  in  the  village. 

Following  the  direction  of  the  sound,  one  will  not  be 
slow  in  arriving  at  a  small  plot  of  grass  before  the  church 
where  the  dancers,  youths  and  maidens,  are  winding 
through  the  figures  of  the  chorus  to  the  notes  of  the 
music.  They  are  mostly  dressed  in  white  — both  sexes, 
and  furnish  a  delightful  view  suddenly  to  the  traveler ; 
the  clear-outlined  sculpturesque  shapes  of  old  come  to 
him  with  the  force  of  a  living  reality.  Is  it  possible  that 
Chseroneia  still  offers  such  a  sight — something  similar  to 
which  ancient  Plutarch  himself  must  have  looked  upon  at 
some  festival  ?  But  pass  them  by  for  the  present ;  let  us 
climb  over  the  fence  and  go  to  the  front  of  the  church 
where  the  priest  in  the  open  air  is  going  through  with  a 
peculiar  ceremony,  in  the  presence  of  men,  women  and 
children,  idly  looking  on.  In  that  crowd  you  will  see  at 
once  ajl  eyes  turned  upon  yourself,  as  if  wondering 
whence  this  sudden  appearance  of  a  man  in  Prankish 
dress,  with  staff  and  knapsack. 


FEOM  LEBEDEIA   TO   CH^EBONEIA.  295 

But  be  not  abashed,  go  near  to  the  happy  couple  that 
you  may  see  and  share  a  little  of  their  joy.  Both  bride 
and  bridegroom  preserve  the  most  determined  cast-down 
look,  as  if  they  were  present  at  their  own  funeral.  The 
bride  will  not  laugh,  though  I  catch  her  eye  once  and  try 
to  coax  a  happy  smile  from  her  —  she  looks  down  ever 
afterward  defiantly  on  the  ground.  She  is  deep-brown 
in  complexion,  with  profile  rather  tortuous  — evidently  a 
simple  country  girl,  from  whom  one  ought  not  to  expect 
too  much  resemblance  to  ancient  Helen.  She  has  a  mani- 
fold, indescribable  head-dress  ;  an  immense  number  of 
silver  coins,  said  to  be  her  complete  dower,  are  strung  in 
strands  about  her  neck ;  her  gown  is  short  and  many- 
colored  ;  she  has  striped  stockings  and  low  morocco  shoes 
with  elegant  ribbons  tied  in  them.  The  bridegroom 
stands  patient,  very  sober,  in  an  elaborately  wrought 
cap  and  fustanella.  The  priest  in  black  stiff  cap  and 
dark  stole,  both  of  which  have  evidently  been  at 
many  a  wedding,  performs  the  ceremony  with  much 
chanting  through  the  nose  and  mysterious  manipulation ; 
I  noticed  that  he  broke  off  right  in  the  middle  of  his 
service  to  scold  with  the  utmost  ferocity  a  little  urchin 
who  was  bringing  a  wax  taper  and  let  it  fall.  At  last  the 
pair  are  crowned,  march  around  an  altar  which  seems  to 
be  ancient,  the  relatives  and  other  friends  dropping 
numerous  copper  coins  into  a  cup  of  holy  water ;  I  go  up 
and  drop  one  in  too  as  my  share  of  the  entertainment. 
The  priest  offers  the  couple  some  bread,  which  falls  out 
of  his  hand  on  the  ground ;  he  picks  it  up  and  rubs  off  the 
dirt,  and  gives  it  to  them  to  eat.  How  much  of  this  is 
essential  for  securing  the  marital  knot,  and  how  much 
unessential,  J.  do  not  undertake  to  say,  I  give  it  all. 

But  at  last  the  ceremony  is  over,  the  couple  begin  to 
march  off  toward  their  home,  followed  by  the  dancers 
and  the  music  and  the  miscellaneous  throng.  I  too  fall 
in  line  and  march  along ;  a  friendly  Chaeroneian  takes  his 
place  at  my  side  and  keeps  me  company.  "  Have  you 
such  things  in  your  country?"  was  his  first  question. 
"  Yes,  people  get  married  there  too,  but  we  have  no  such 
music,  nor  have  we  your  white  folds."  Meantime  we 


296  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

kept  moving  to  the  sound  of  the  caramousa  and  drum ; 
the  long  statuesque  procession  crossed  over  a  classic 
stream  which  runs  through  the  middle  of  the  town  ;  I  be- 
gin now  to  feel  my  Prankish  garments  to  be  a  discord 
amid  these  white-robed  shapes. 

We  reach  the  house  on  the  banks  of  the  stream  ;  the 
bride  and  bridegroom  stop  before  it  and  are  greeted  with 
a  hymeneal  song  from  within  —  a  song  not  easy  for  me 
to  understand,  but  rudely  celebrating  domestic  bliss  and 
wedded  harmony,  as  near  as  I  could  gather  from  by- 
standers. Then  came  a  responsive  strain  by  the  friends 
outside,  when  the  couple  disappeared  behind  the  door; 
these  are  admitted  with  deep  obeisance  on  part  of  the 
bride,  while  the  groom  strides  in  proudly  erect.  Thus 
they  celebrated  in  simple  idyllic  art  their  entrance  into  a 
new  life  —  that  of  the  Family  in  which  man  and  woman 
try  to  realize  their  love,  the  twain  now  living  together  as 
one  person  in  a  mysterious  higher  unity.  Truly  the  first 
and  most  universal  theme  of  all  Art  is  this,  for  the  hum- 
blest as  well  as  the  highest,  since  that  secret  bond  must 
insist  upon  some  utterance,  nay,  a  beautiful  utterance  if 
possible ;  so  the  bridal  song  is  still  heard  among  the 
peasants  of  Chaeroneia,  and  the  village  gives  itself  up 
wholly  to  the  festival. 

Then  follows  an  indiscriminate  pelting  of  candies  from 
the  house,  out  of  the  windows,  around  the  corners,  from 
the  roof  even  they  shower,  to  the  great  amusement  of 
the  children  who  scramble  for  the  delicacies,  and  of  some 
who  are  older.  Let  the  stranger  beware,  since  his  foreign 
dress  marks  him  out  for  a  special  benison  ;  let  him  shade 
his  face  with  his  hands  against  two  or  three  persistent 
maidens  who  bombard  him  from  a  little  knoll  above. 
But  this  ceases  like  a  passing  summer  shower;  then  the 
sun  comes  forth,  namely,  the  golden  recinato,  which 
flows  out  of  the  house  in  radiant  streams,  and  of  which 
the  entire  multitude  partake,  including  the  traveler,  who 
will  empty  not  less  than  one  glass  to  the  health  of  the 
happy  pair.  In  such  way  will  you  or  any  stranger  be 
treated  if  you  appear  on  a  wedding  day  before  Lent  in 
the  little  town  of  Chaeroneia. 


FHOM  LE  BE  DEI  A    TO   CH^EEONEIA.  297 

Again  follows  the  chant;  it  would  seem  as  if  song 
were  here  inborn  and  had  to  find  expression,  gushing  up 
like  yonder  source  from  the  hill-side ;  the  exalted  mood 
of  the  singers  makes  the  strain  throb  in  true  response  to 
the  inner  ecstasy.  A  rude,  primitive,  poetical  world, 
the  basis  of  all  genuine  poetry  is  here,  yet  without  its 
development.  These  songs  recall  Pindar  with  his  mar- 
riage odes  and  epithalamiums ;  they  were  a  reality  upon 
this  spot  long  before  him  even,  and  they  still  exist.  But 
anciently  he  raised  the  germ  to  be  flower,  to  be  fruit. 
This  rude  material  the  poet  coming  along  with  sacred  fire 
purifies  into  shining  metal.  Great  need  is  there  of  him 
with  his  true  eye  and  sense  of  beauty ;  one  can  imagine 
what  the  genius  of  Chaeroneia  might  still  do  with  these 
uncouth  yet  genuine  melodies,  were  he  to  appear  and 
breathe  upon  them  the  breath  of  divine  beauty.  This 
poetical  world  could  be  embodied  yet  in  rhythmical  har- 
mony ;  but  one  of  its  own  sons  must  be  reared  to  feel 
that  harmony  in  it  and  endow  the  same  with  a  voice. 

The  youths  now  adjourn  to  the  village  green  and  begin 
the  dance,  still  called  in  Greece  the  chorus  ;  they  are  soon 
followed  by  the  maidens,  who  gracefully  join  in  the  circle. 
The  rest  of  the  day  is  to  be  spent  in  festivities ;  the  whole 
village  is  in  festal  attire  ;  white  garments  are  flitting  by 
everywhere  through  the  sunshine  ;  it  is  in  the  true  sense 
an  idyllic  life,  not  the  false  pretended  one  of  so  much  pas- 
toral verse.  Old  people  one  meets  who  seem  to  have  be- 
come young  again ;  mothers  appear  to  have  been  trans- 
formed into  their  daughters  and  join  in  the  chorus  with 
youthful  glee ;  in  fact  the  whole  town  appears  to  have 
been  married  to-day  in  its  one  wedding. 

But  we  can,  not  go  to  the  choral  place,  we  must  reach 
Daulis  to-day  in  good  season.  So  let  us  turn  back  and 
re-cross  the  stream  ;  but  from  its  further  bank  we  shall 
look  around  at  the  dancers  on  the  distant  greensward. 
Can  I  convey  to  you  a  faint  picture  of  them  as  they  wind 
about  in  light-stepping  turns  and  simple,  graceful  move- 
ments? A  circle  is  formed,  headed  by  the  chief  dancer, 
who  hops  and  skips,  often  leaping  into  the  air  and  giving 
a  whirl  which  fills  out  the  white  folds  of  his  f ustanella. 


298  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

The  rest  of  the  dancers  move  more  simply,  going  back- 
ward, forward,  and  keeping  time  to  the  music ;  then  they 
run  around  in  a  circle,  all  joining  hands  except  the  first 
and  last.  Next  come  the  maidens,  forming  a  row  together 
in  white  dress,  most  of  them  having  in  addition  a  many- 
colored  apron  and  sacque ;  these  last  garments  furnish 
the  color.  Nor  are  the  children  excluded  from  the  circle, 
though  -they  soon  drop  out.  Notice  too  the  movement  of 
the  maidens,  for  now  they  are  dancing  by  themselves:  it 
seems  quite  the  same  as  we  may  see  on  ancient  monu- 
ments —  long  dress,  slow  step,  clear,  plastic  outlines  in 
this  transparent  air.  There  is  no  wild  effort,  no  frantic 
tossing  of  the  limbs  —  but  staid,  stately,  simple  motion, 
free  of  all  pretense  and  extravagance.  Grace  is  here,  an 
inborn  delight  in  movement  for  its  own  sake,  with  true 
Greek  moderation.  The  girl  who  dances  at  the  head 
holds  in  her  hand  merely  a  wreath,  with  which  she  marks 
the  time  and  the  changes  of  direction  for  the  circle.  The 
youths  are  dressed  entirely  in  white,  which  color  strongly 
predominates  with  the  maidens  also ;  thus  they  move 
easily  without  struggle,  with  their  soft,  white  outlines  set 
off  against  the  green  hillside :  on  the  whole  it  is  the  pret- 
tiest sight  I  have  seen  in  Greece. 

But  that  music  —  what  shall  a  person  say  to  it?  Cer- 
tainly it  is  a  strange  compound  —  a  drum  and  a  cara- 
mousa — a  snarling  instrument,  somewhat  resembling  in 
form  and  in  sound  the  hautboy  or  the  flageolet.  Not  to 
our  taste,  say  we  of  the  Western  world.  Then  the  music 
has  no  tune,  but  merely  rhythm  —  such  is  its  character. 
Surely  this  music  is  not  to  be  considered  as  an  independ- 
ent art,  which  can  be  enjoyed  by  itself  —  it  is  to  give  to 
the  dancers  the  rhythmical  movement  rather  and  to  keep 
the  time ;  it  hints  by  its  notes  the  step  to  be  taken,  which 
is  rendered  more  emphatic  by  the  beat  of  the  drum. 
Rude  enough,  it  may  justly  be  called ;  the  body,  how- 
ever, must  move  to  its  sway  and  keep  in  rhythm  —  so 
much  now  we  can  make  out  of  it,  and  perhaps  more 
hereafter. 

The  old  always  transfuses  itself  on  this  soil  into  tho 
new;  the  hymeneal  sports  of  ancient  Greece  wind  into 


FROM  LEBEDEIA    TO   CHJERONEIA.  299 

these  dances,  into  the  dress  and  customs,  above  all  into 
the  song ;  one  feels  that  he  is  looking  at  some  antique 
festival.  As  one  watches  the  chorus,  it  will  seem  to  grow 
more  beautiful,  ancient  things  become  clear,  antiquity 
seems  ready  to  burst  into  a  living,  spontaneous  reality, 
the  Graces  show  themselves,  even  the  Muses  will  be  im- 
agined still  to  hover  around  this  spot  right  under  their 
ancient  seats,  Helicon  and  Parnassus.  On  a  hill  above 
the  town  can  yet  be  seen  the  Acropolis  of  Choeroneia, 
with  its  Cyclopean  remains  of  wall ;  I  cannot  doubt  that 
it  looked  down  upon  quite  a  similar  chorus  1,800 
years  ago  in  the  time  of  Plutarch,  nay,  2,800  years  ago 
in  the  time  of  Homer.  The  Greek  political  world  per- 
ished in  the  battle  upon  these  very  meadows,  but  that 
older  Greek  world  endures  along  with  those  adamantine 
walls  of  the  Acropolis. 

In  fact  the  primitive  elements  out  of  which  Greek  Art 
and  Literature  arose,  are  here  to-day;  but  their  result 
is  vastly  different  from  the  ancient  one.  The  culture  of 
modern  Greece  does  not  spring  from  its  own  native  seed- 
corn,  but  from  the  importations  out  of  the  Occident ;  it 
seeks  to  follow  European  models  instead  of  cherishing  an 
inner  self-development  from  its  own  germ.  What  would 
not  a  man  of  the  highest  native  culture  without  foreign 
influence  make  out  of  these  festivals  ?  Think  of  a  Pindar 
arranging  the  dance  and  composing  the  song  and  drilling 
the  youths  to  grace  of  form  and  motion,  as  he  anciently 
did ;  think  of  these  customs,  not  as  they  are  now,  ban- 
ished to  the  rude  peasantry,  but  loved,  studied,  beauti- 
fied by  the  highest  classes,  by  the  people  of  leisure  and 
culture !  Here  are  the  germs  of  ancient  Greek  poesy  and 
art,  one  will  -continually  repeat  to  himself,  but  the  crop, 
the  fruit  is  wanting.  This  perdurably  vital  seed  could,  it 
seems,  sprout  and  flower  only  once. 

I  do  not  think  that  the  women  of  Chseroneia  are  beau- 
tiful, in  spite  of  the  exalted  mood  which  the  traveler  may 
indulge  in.  Nor  will  one  admire  the  men  very  much ;  he 
will,  however,  find  exceeding  delight  in  viewing  the  peo- 
ple as  a  whole,  for  they  are  the  bearers  of  an  antique  life 
still,  which  means  to  some  of  us  quite  as  much  as  any 


300  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

thing  which  has  yet  been.  But  in  the  women  he  will 
nevertheless  notice  many  a  fragment  of  Greek  beauty. 
Nor  must  you  think  that  this  persistent  search  after 
female  beauty  in  Greece  is  a  mere  erotic  sport,  of  doubt- 
ful propriety  in  a  grown  man  ;  it  belongs  to  the  serious 
duty  of  the  traveler  who  may  be  seeking  some  origin  of 
that  wonderful  Greek  ideal  which  will  apparently  domi- 
nate the  Art  of  the  world  forever.  It  is  an  expression 
of  the  Divine,  as  well  as  Religion ;  it  gives  its  consolation 
by  its  utterance  to  many  a  poor  mortal  otherwise  not 
to  be  reached.  Art,  too,  is  essentially  feminine,  finds  its 
highest  embodiment  of  beauty  in  woman  ;  while  Religion 
find  its  completest  embodiment  in  a  God  who  is  supreme, 
rather  than  in  a  Goddess.  Therefore  one  may  reason- 
ably look  into  all  these  female  faces  and  mark  them 
sharply,  often  exclaiming  to  himself :  Behold,  there  is  a 
Phidian  or  a  Praxitilean  feature. 

Unwillingly  one  turns  away  from  the  view ;  it  has  in- 
deed been  a  revelation  —  a  glance  into  antique  life,  into 
that  oldest  poetical  world  lying  back  of  ancient  song 
and  forming  its  spiritual  ground-work.  It  is  not  pure, 
now,  one  feels  but  too  well ;  Time  has  thrown  into  the 
stream  of  custom  many  a  huge  boulder  and  clump  of 
mud ;  it  is  corrupted  with  foreign  ingredients,  like  the 
Greek  language  of  to-day ;  still  the  soul  of  it  is  antique, 
its  fragments  can  be  put  together ;  and  its  old  power  can 
be  seen  to  be  gleaming  through.  It  is  tlie  Clueroneian 
Lion  over  again,  pieces  lie  scattered  around,  it  is  worn 
by  the  storms  of  ages,  corroded  by  the  weather,  hacked 
and  maltreated  by  the  foreigner  —  still  it  is  a  Lion,  a 
Greek  Lion:  who  can  doubt  it?  Nor  can  one  help  crying 
out  again:  Put  it  together  once  more,  and  make  this 
life  live  anew  in  song,  in  art,  in  literature  ;  but  above  all 
make  the  Greek  Lion  leap  down  from  the  tomb  upon  his 
foes. 

Again  one  will  stop  before  the  church  and  glance  at  it ; 
the  Papas  is  still  there,  and  observing  the  stranger  in- 
vites him  to  enter ;  in  fact  the  stranger  has  received  al- 
most as  much  attention  as  the  bride  to-day  —  the  people 
always  beginning  their  questions  with  this  one,  whether 


FROM  LEBEDEIA    TO   CH^EEONEIA.  301 

there  be  such  things  in  his  country,  for  they  cannot  be- 
lieve that  so  many  wonderful  things  exist  anywhere  but 
at  Chaeroneia.  There  is  no  end  to  the  curious  inquiries 
oi  the  people  —  for  has  not  a  man  come  from  infinite 
space  unheralded,  speaking  in  a  strange  accent,  with 
pack  and  staff  in  hand,  in  unusual  garments,  dropped  out 
of  the  skies  into  a  small  rural  town  on  a  bright  Sunday 
morning  during  a  wedding  festival?  On  coming  to  think 
about  the  matter,  it  seems  a  strange  thing  to  myself. 

The  Papas  a  second  time  invites  me  into  the  quaint  low 
church,  which  has  a  strong  smell  of  age  about  it,  and 
proceeds  to  show  me  the  antiquities  preserved  in  its  walls. 
There  is  an  inscription,  said  to  be  concerning  the  worship 
of  Serapis,  the  Egyptian  divinity;  thus  Chaeroneia  went 
back  to  the  Orient  even  in  ancient  times  for  her  worship. 
Architectural  ornaments,  you  will  notice,  in  which  the 
clear  Greek  form  is  disfigured  by  barbaric  crudities; 
Byzantine  fancies  have  been  chiseled  in  an  ancient  pillar  ; 
truly  Chaeroneia  shows  how  muddied  the  old  clear  stream 
has  become  in  places.  Even  the  religious  ceremony  to- 
day seemed  a  dark  Byzantine  symbolism  engrafted  on  the 
bright  ancient  Greek  life.  These  customs,  too,  have  their 
root  in  the  old  time,  with  some  rude  barbarous  impress 
on  the  outside.  Thus,  in  this  church  we  may  read  a  very 
plain  page  of  History. 

But  the  Papas,  reserving  his  greatest  surprise  to  the 
last,  conducted  me  to  a  marble  chair,  and  said  with  a  look 
of  complete  satisfaction:  "  This  is  the  chair  of  Plutarch, 
who  was  once  a  magistrate  of  Chaeroneia ;  in  it  he  sat 
when  presiding  at  the  festivals,  and  at  the  theater,  whose 
ruins  you  can  still  see  yonder  on  the  hill-side."  Thus 
spake  the  Priest,  coupling  the  chair  with  the  greatest 
name  which  Chaeroneia  produced,  and  which  causes  it  to 
be  mentioned  still  throughout  the  civilized  world. 

Already  the  question  had  frequently  suggested  itself 
ere  we  came  in  sight  of  the  town,  Why  should  a  Plutarch 
arise  at  Chaeroneia  ?  He  is  the  man  of  reflection,  the  man 
who  looks  back  on  the  past  in  calm  meditation ;  I  think 
he  belongs  here  where  the  greatness  of  Hellas  came  to  an 
end,  and  was  henceforth  to  be  one  of  the  chief  themes  of 


302  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

contemplation.  He  is  the  retrospective  Greek  imbued 
with  a  mild  philosophy;  he  looks  back  at  the  great 
characters  of  his  country  with  a  sunny  serenity,  and 
writes  about  them  a  great  book.  Yet  it  is  too  a  popular 
book,  the  delight  of  the  whole  world,  read  in  all  tongues, 
for  Plutarch  seems  to  possess  this  peculiarity,  that  he 
suffers  little  by  translation.  The  element  common  to 
humanity  is  his  to  reveal,  chiefly  to  utter  for  the  humble. 
A  world-man ;  not  for  the  few,  but  for  the  mass  he  wrote 
with  some  strange  fascination.  His  book  may  often  be 
seen  alongside  the  Bible  in  the  cottage  of  the  husband- 
man who,  driven  in  from  the  fields  by  the  shower,  takes  it 
down  and  reads  of  its  great  examples.  Here,  at  Chse- 
roneia,  Plutarch  lived  and  wrote  his  Parallel  Lives;  in  this 
country  place  and  the  places  around,  what  a  library  for 
the  composition  of  such  a  work !  Could  we  but  make  the 
earth  give  up  those  old  books  from  their  ashes  mingled 
with  this  soil :  —  that  is  the  next  process  we  may  expect 
science  to  discover. 

Plutarch  is  a  moralist,  history  with  him  is  a  study  in 
morality ;  he  has  made  of  it  that  happy  admixture  of 
moral  reflection  and  biographical  narrative,  which  in- 
structs and  elevates  while  it  keeps  the  attention.  Such 
is  his  great  lesson  to  the  people,  who  rise  through  him  to 
being  universal  in  their  conduct,  adjusting  their  lives  to 
fixed  maxims  and  not  yielding  to  momentary  caprices. 
Subdue  the  passions,  throw  away  ambition,  avarice,  in- 
justice, make  existence  equable  and  harmonious  ;  in  such 
manner  he  preaches  with  a  sweet  purity,  and  with  great 
effect  upon  the  multitude.  No  one  can  estimate  the 
value  his  book  has  had  for  the  people  since  it  was  written ; 
it  is  not  too  high  for  them,  yet  above  them,  drawing  them 
always  upward,  by  filling  their  minds  with  moral  prin- 
ciples accompanied  by  grand  examples.  Perhaps  it  is 
the  most  moral  of  books  in  the  best  sense  of  the  word ; 
what  morality  can  do  for  man  becomes  therein  apparent ; 
it  makes  him  an  harmonious  being,  and  gives  him  a  self- 
centered  inner  life  which  is  proof  against  both  bad  and 
good  fortune. 

Still  he  does  not  stop  with  mere  moral  abstractions :  he 


FROM    LEBEDEIA   TO   CH^EEONEIA.  303 

gives  us  the  great  examples  of  the  past ;  thus  his  pages 
live  with  individuals.  A  dry  record  of  virtues  and  vices 
would  not  amount  to  much,  but  here  they  are  wrought 
together  into  vital  unity  in  character.  He  still  walks 
among  these  valleys  and  hills,  and  the  traveler  will  often 
meet  him  reflecting  on  the  mighty  individualities  of  the 
past,  coupling  those  of  Greece  and  Rome,  the  twin  fac- 
tors of  the  world's  history  in  his  time.  The  old  philos- 
opher will  ascend  yonder  summit  on  a  sunny  afternoon 
and  look  at  the  curious  natural  walls  of  stone  which  lie 
there  like  a  citadel ;  in  the  opposite  direction  he  will  take 
a  long  walk  through  the  grassy  valley  to  reedy  Kephissus. 
Of  what  is  he  thinking?  Of  Alexander,  of  Caesar,  of 
Sulla  who  fought  a  battle  on  this  very  spot ;  look  into  his 
book,  we  can  tell  just  what  his  thoughts  often  were  as 
he  took  his  afternoon  stroll  through  these  even-topped 
fields  of  grain  or  up  the  hill-side. 

Great  is  the  variety  of  Nature  around  this  valley,  but 
everywhere  musical ;  Helicon  and  Parnassus  lie  on  either 
hand,  let  him  take  his  choice.  The  snowy  height  of 
Parnassus  is  just  across  this  little  valley  ;  if  he  wish  to 
spend  a  day  in  the  cool,  fresh  breath  of  Muses,  thither  he 
can  easily  pass.  He  lives  not  in  a  great  city  now — yet 
he  has  lived  at  Rome ;  there  politics,  war,  society  are 
troublesome,  there  is  the  present.  Quiet  contemplation 
rests  on  these  hills  to-day,  and  they  produced  him  an- 
ciently ;  along  the  road  in  which  we  are  now  walking  he 
must  have  often  passed,  at  the  foot  of  Petrachos  hill, 
tranquilly  looking  up  toward  its  sunny  tops  with  a  serene 
exaltation.  Lines  of  mountains  run  on  both  sides  of  the 
valley  and  seem  to  separate  you  to-day  from  the  world, 
shutting  you  up  within  yourself,  in  sweet,  calm  contem- 
plation. Thus  the  old  man  from  this  quiet  nook  could 
survey  the  past  period  of  turmoil  and  write  the  biographies 
of  its  heroes. 

But  this  walk  would  not  have  been  altogether  solitary 
in  the  olden  time ;  people  met  him  on  the  road  with  a 
jar  of  wine  or  a  skin  full  of  oil,  going  to  the  village,  as 
they  meet  me  now ;  the  peasant  he  would  lind  turning 
over  the  sod  with  a  plow  which  has  remained  almost 


304  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

unchanged ;  the  driver  would  sit  on  the  back  of  his  plod- 
ding donkey  and  salute  in  language  like  that  of  to-day. 
But  here  comes  the  finest  sight  of  all;  youths  wind- 
ing up  the  road  to  Chaeroneia,  in  their  gala  attire, 
maidens  with  gleeful  look  following  after  in  groups 
with  anticipation  of  the  chorus,  all  in  holiday  dress. 
Such  Plutarch  would  meet,  such  I  meet  now  going 
along  the  way  toward  Daulis  and  viewing  the  old  in  the 
new. 

This  then  is  the  man  who  proposed  to  unfold  the  his- 
tory of  Greece  and  Rome  in  a  grand  line  of  individuals  ; 
these  were  for  him  the  essential  thing  of  the  ancient 
world.  Not  an  account  of  the  State  will  he  give ;  the 
State  dissolves  into  its  Great  Men,  whom  he  portrays  as 
it  were  for  themselves  ;  history  breaks  up  into  biography. 
I  hold  this  conception  to  be  in  a  high  degree  the  truest 
one  of  ancient  history,  more  especially  of  Greek  history ; 
it  is  a  series  of  grand  heroic  individualities,  a  gallery  of 
ideal  sculpturesque  shapes.  A  Greek  of  the  later  time 
the  writer  must  be,  a  time  of  regretful  looking  back  and 
contemplation,  rather  than  of  action  ;  the  Greek  State  is 
lost,  but  there  remains  in  the  past  these  towering  forms. 
Greece  has  been  conquered  by  Rome,  it  is  true,  but  can 
she  not  parallel  the  greatest  Roman  men  ?  Indeed  she 
can :  so  a  Greek  is  going  to  write  the  history  of  Greece 
in  the  biographies  of  her  great  men  and  set  them  along- 
side of  the  mightiest  Romans  ;  this  comparison  will  to  a 
degree  take  away  the  pang  of  servitude. 

Indeed  such  supreme  characters  are  always  the  center 
of  interest;  in  them  the  nation,  especially  the  Greek  na- 
tion, hints  its  innermost  essence  ;  Greece  is  but  the  story 
of  its  heroic  individuals,  whether  they  be  fabulous  or  real. 
Who  figures  in  Greek  poetry,  who  in  Greek  history  ?  Let 
us  look  at  Plutarch,  who  opens  with  Theseus,  a  hero,  a 
mythical  character,  to  give  the  key-note  to  his  book. 
These  mighty  souls  of  heroes  the  State  does  not  absorb, 
rather  they  absorb  the  State ;  as  has  been  already  re- 
marked, their  communities  find  it  difficult  to  subsume 
them  —  they  become  too  great  for  their  country.  In  them 
is  concentrated  all  Hellenic  greatness,  let  their  lives  be 


FEOM  LEBEDEIA    TO   CH^EIIONEIA.  305 

written  and  set  in  a  gallery,  like  Gods  in  the  Greek  Pan- 
theon. 

Such  was  the  glorious  conception  of  Plutarch  to  do 
honor  to  his  nation,  to  tell  the  story  of  the  great  Greek 
Individualities  —  he  himself  being  one  of  them  just  in  such 
a  conception.  His,  however,  was  the  later  form  of  great- 
ness, not  that  of  action,  but  of  appreciating  action. 
Greece  had  perished,  that  is,  had  become  a  fraction  in  a 
Macedonian  Empire,  then  a  still  smaller  fraction  in  the 
universal  Roman  Empire.  Where  now  is  the  autonomous 
Greek  village,  the  wonder  of  Time,  developing  with  such 
prolific  energy  its  great  individuals?  Sunk,  lost  to  view, 
absorbed  into  the  new  current  of  the  World's  History,  and 
therewith  have  been  absorbed  its  great  individuals  who 
were  bred  of  the  conflicts  of  disunited  autonomy.  Here 
at  Chaeroneia  that  power  of  Greek  individuality  came  to 
an  end ;  here  Plutarch  arises  and  summons  once  more 
those  mighty  individuals  before  himself,  when  they  no 
longer  can  act  but  have  become  a  dim  shadow  of  reflec- 
tion, yet  still  speaking  like  the  ghost  of  Achilles  out  of 
Hades.  Even  Plutarch  himself  writing  his  book  lives  in 
that  world  of  reflection  like  his  own  great  characters ; 
therein,  also,  he  belongs  to  them,  being  able  to  call  up 
the  shades  of  the  illustrious  past,  and  making  himself  as 
if  it  were  one  of  them,  and  moving  in  a  subtle  harmony 
with  them. 

Plutarch,  therefore,  sauntering  around  these  hills  in  the 
first  century  after  Christ,  has  nought  to  do  but  to  look 
back  at  the  great  ones  of  the  aforetime ;  thus  he  still 
feels  the  mightiest  fact  of  his  nation  and  hastens  to  utter 
the  same.  Hence  he  has  written  a  world-book  about  his 
Hellas,  in  spite  of  what  erudition  has  said  or  may  say 
against  it  —  a  true  bot>k  of  the  people.  For  my  part  I 
like  it  —  like  even  what  are  called  its  weaknesses ;  its 
gossipy  frankness,  its  love  of  anecdotes,  its  belief  in 
prodigies,  even  its  little  tattle,  all  find  favor  with  me,  for 
they  grow  out  of  the  work  and  give  it  a  distinct,  peren- 
nial flavor.  Still  the  old  man  can  be  seen,  I  repeat,  wan- 
dering along  this  road,  reflecting  upon  those  mighty  indi- 
viduals which  reach  up  through  history  like  so  many  grand 

20 


306  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

statues.  From  this  point  of  view,  Plutarch  is  an  artist 
of  genuine  Greek  mould — perhaps  the  very  greatest 
Greek  artist  —  putting  these  plastic  forms  on  a  new  pedes- 
tal, hewing  them  out  of  material  far  more  enduring  than 
marble.  Very  different  is  the  circumstance  of  life  with 
us  moderns  —  now  the  individual  is  absorbed  into  institu- 
tions instead  of  absorbing  them  ;  heroes  of  colossal  indi- 
viduality can  hardly  be  produced.  At  present,  man  is  a 
fraction,  he  must  specialize  himself  in  our  social  organ- 
ism,and  contentedly  act  a  very  small  part  —  too  late  by 
some  thousands  of  years  to  be  a  hero.  Let  him  go  back 
then  to  old  Plutarch  and  read  there  and  so  be  one  ideally ; 
thus  he  will  be  healed,  that  is,  made  whole  by  viewing 
total  men  once  more  and  not  fragments  of  men.  Such  is 
the  way  the  old  Chaeroneian  will  helpfully  reach  out  to  us 
still.  Yet  do  not  make  the  mistake  of  thinking  that  our 
modern  life  is  a  lapse  from  that  ancient  one  ;  the  latter 
had  its  worth,  which  we  can  appropriate ;  it  produced 
heroes,  but  we  can  produce  greater  than  heroes. 

If  I  were  to  whisper  one  slight  critical  word  concerning 
the  good  old  man,  it  would  be  this  :  very  little  knowledge 
he  exhibits  of  the  profounder  conflicts  of  history,  of 
those  deep  struggles  of  principles  above  States,  far  above 
individuals  for  the  most  part,  principles  not  historical, 
but  world-historical.  Some  such  insight  ought  to  gleam 
through  certain  of  his  leading  characters,  though  but 
faintly,  as  Themistocles  or  Caesar ;  thus  he  might  give  the 
whole  truth,  yet  not  soar  too  high  above  the  heads  of  the 
people  for  whom  he  writes.  For  Plutarch  indeed  this  is 
a  moral  world  merely,  somewhat  too  fixed  and  abstract ; 
as  opposed  to  this  point  of  view  every  other  has  to  yield. 
Hence  he  sometimes  gets  his  great  characters  entangled 
in  his  moral  cobwebs,  from  which  he  can  not  free  them, 
though  their  glory  is  to  have  brushed  all  such  hindrances 
manfully  away  on  the  right  occasion.  Still  for  his  people 
he  has  said  the  true  word,  mankind  must  be  moral  if 
nought  else  ;  only  by  morality  can  the  multitude  partici- 
pate in  that  universal  life,  without  which  a  human  being 
can  scarcely  be  called  human. 

A  sin  less  excusable  is,  that  he  was  sometimes  careless 


FROM  LEBEDEIA   TO   CH^EEONEtA.  307 

about  his  facts,  was  not  rigidly  critical  according  to  our 
modern  historical  standard.  No,  he  did  not  fully  appre- 
ciate the  value  of  the  fact,  I  think ;  he  did  not  recognize 
that  what  is,  has  the  supremest  right  to  be  told  just  as  it 
is  ;  aught  else  is  a  wrong  done  to  the  reality  and  to  his- 
tory as  the  record  of  the  reality.  Rigidlv  critical  he  is 
not  then,  still  he  is  far  better  than  a  critical  writer  merely ; 
what  modern  biographer  has  equaled  him?  The  man 
Plutarch  we  must  have,  though  he  be  not  a  critic ;  his 
soul  is  in  his  book,  and  we  commune  with  it  there  —  that 
transparent,  antique  soul,  heroic  of  its  kind  too,  in  writ- 
ing the  lives  of  heroes. 

Let  us  then  behold  once  more  the  serene  old  man  sum- 
moning before  his  tribunal  the  great  ones  of  the  Past  who 
move  through  the  mellow  sunshine  of  his  book,  and  are 
often  seen  in  it  to  their  very  souls.  Philosophy  he  calls 
his  sunshine  ;  we  thus  note  what  he  means  by  Philosophy  — 
au  unruffled  movement  of  thought  and  a  calm  elevation  of 
feeling,  united  into  a  happy,  undisturbed  harmony  of 
character.  In  him  ancient  Philosophy  has  borne,  one 
feels  forced  to  think,  its  sweetest,  if  not  its  most  perfect 
fruit.  Philosophy  with  him  is  not  the  keen- edged  dialectic 
of  human  spirit,  not  the  mighty  struggle  of  Titanic  souls 
to  grasp  the  Universe,  to  think  the  thought  of  God  him- 
self :  all  this  lies  far  beyond  the  range  of  Plutarch  ;  his  is 
the  honey  of  the  world,  not  its  wormwood ;  a  sweet 
serenity  of  soul  looking  out  upon  the  troubled  waters  of 
the  ocean  and  telling  them  how  to  be  quiet  by  means  of 
amiable  reflections.  Deep,  tempest-tossed  natures  will 
hardly  be  satisfied  in  this  manner;  but  his  words  are 
anchors  for  the  people,  and  therein  he  is  great,  great  in 
the  very  best  'sense  of  the  word,  giving  hope  and  har- 
monious life  to  the  Many. 

In  fact  it  is  not  Philosophy  at  all,  if  we  speak  strictly, 
this  tendency  in  Plutarch ;  it  is  rather  Religiosity  —  a 
deep,  pervading  sense  of  religion.  Reverence  for  the 
Divine,  a  strong  religious  feeling  in  sacred  things  is  his 
profoundest  trait ;  nor  must  we  forget  that  he  was  offi- 
cially a  Priest  of  Apollo  at  Delphi,  which  lies  not  more 
than  a  good  day's  walk  from  his  home  here.  We  feel  in 


308  A    WALK  Itf  HELLAS. 

his  book  that  he  was  a  Priest  of  the  truest  kind,  Priest  of 
the  God  of  Light.  I  do  not  think  that  the  old  religion 
fully  satisfied  him,  though  he  conformed  to  it ;  he  had 
risen  to  a  universal  religion  which  attunes  the  soul  to  the 
one  Creator,  and  does  not  distract  it  with  horrible  dis- 
cordant notes  of  creed  and  sect ;  a  pure,  humane  Religiosity 
it  is,  giving  to  the  possessor  goodness,  and  being  an  end- 
less source  of  moral  elevation  to  the  multitude  who  read 
him.  In  this  soft  light  of  his  own  spirit  all  his  characters 
pass  before  us  and  are  illuminated ;  we  see  them  in  har- 
mony or  in  struggle  with  this  light,  and  there  is  left  with 
us  some  abiding  impression  of  music  or  of  discord  coming 
from  their  lives.  So  the  traveler  on  this  Sunday  after- 
noon walking  through  the  Chaeroneian  vale  will  have  a 
heart  full  of  veneration  for  the  old  heathen,  will  feel  some 
worship  akin  to  his,  and  will  speak  aloud  to  the  passing 
shadow :  Yes,  Plutarch,  to-day  I  feel  thy  worth  more  than 
ever  before,  and  I  see  now  that  among  thy  many  good 
qualities,  the  best  one  is  thy  Religiosity. 


XIV.    FROM  CH^RONEIA  TO  ABAC  HOB  A. 

As  the  pedestrian  passes  out  of  Chaeroneia,  ho  will  take 
no  small  delight  in  the  fountain  which  comes  gurgling 
down  the  hill-side  in  a  multitude  of  rillets  like  a  bevy  of 
babbling  girls,  and  runs  and  hides  in  the  grass  of  the 
plain.  Nor  will  he  at  the  view  of  it  fail  to  remember  the 
injunction  of  old  Hesiod,  never  to  cross  a  stream  without 
looking  upon  it  and  praying.  The  ancient  theater  will 
also  be  noticed  above  on  the  slope  —  a  necessary  place  of 
worship  for  every  Greek  town,  which  by  festivals  and  by 
representations  made  even  its  Gods  merry.  Our  view  of 
the  theater  is  somewhat  different ;  at  least  the  divine  ele- 
ment of  it  can  now  be  seen  only  in  Greece. 

But  let  there  be  no  more  delay ;  let  us  enter  the  road 
to  Parnassus,  the  literal  one  I  mean,  not  the  figurative 
one ;  otherwise'  you  might  hesitate  to  follow.  This  road 


FROM  CH^ERONEIA    TO  ARAGHOBA.  301) 

passes  at  the  foot  of  a  low  range  of  hills  on  the  one  hand, 
on  the  other  lie  the  pleasant  fields  of  the  vale  of  Kephis- 
sus,  which  carry  the  e}Te  across  to  a  parallel  range  of 
hills  on  whose  sides  are  reposing  several  villages  in  sun- 
shine ;  simply  as  a  white  spot  you  see  each  of  them  in  the 
distance ;  no  stir,  no  life,  a  sunny  rest  on  the  slopes. 
People  in  festive  dress  meet  the  traveler,  it  is  a  holiday, 
every  face  has  some  dash  of  mischief  or  of  merriment. 
But  the  poor  shepherdess  yonder  cannot  leave  her  sheep 
to  take  part  in  the  chorus  at  the  village ;  still  she  has  put 
on  a  clean  gown  of  flawless  white,  and  leans  against  a 
rock,  weaving  a  garland  of  leaves  and  flowers  ;  for  whom, 
let  the  experienced  observer  imagine.  Not  for  me,  as  I 
learned  from  the  best  authority,  namely,  the  maiden  her- 
self. 

Thus  after  a  two  hours'  walk  full  of  solid  realities  and 
insubstantial  dreams,  mingled  in  admirable  disorder,  the 
traveler  arrives  at  ancient  Panopeus,  now  called  Agios 
Blasios.  Here  too  are  the  youths  gathered  in  the  danc- 
ing-places and  winding  through  the  chorus  ;  festivity  has 
been  wild  all  day  and  can  not  stop ;  already  the  Sun, 
declining  moi'e  than  half  way  toward  the  summits  in  the 
West,  seems  to  show  signs  of  becoming  wearied  with  so 
much  sport ;  still  the  dance  and  song  run  on  out  of  sheer 
inability  to  come  to  a  pause.  Nor  can  one  look  into  this 
bottomless  fountain  of  mirth  without  seeing  therein  a 
grin  on  his  own  face.  He  will  remember  too  old  Homer, 
who  called  this  very  Panopeus  kallichorus,  town  of  beauti- 
ful choruses.  In  such  manner  the  ancient  Homeric 
habit  is  kept  up  to  the  present  time :  —  what  the  old 
bard  himself  may  have  beheld  on  a  holiday  as  he  en- 
tered this  viHage  with  staff  and  wallet  on  his  way  to 
Delphi,  is  still  seen  by  the  modern  wayfarer  going  upon 
the  same  journey.  Thus  the  latter  will  pleasantly  couple 
his  own  name  with  that  of  Homer  as  his  illustrious  pre- 
decessor, not  in  Epic  poetry,  but  in  seeing  the  chorus  at 
Panopeus. 

Nor  will  the  dutiful  traveler  fail  to  look  here  for  some 
of  those  clay  fragments,  large  enough  to  require  a  wagon 
for  their  transportation,  the  remnants  of  that  clay  out  of 


310  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

which  Prometheus  made  the  human  race,  and  which  had 
the  smell,  to  the  nose  of  an  ancient  tourist,  of  human 
flesh,  still  in  the  second  century  of  the  Christian  Era. 
This  is  the  veritable  locality  of  that  wonderful  event,  and 
the  old  Artist  has  left  a  few  pieces  lying  around  which 
belonged  to  his  pottery,  the  great  pottery  of  mankind  at 
Panopeus.  I  went  along  the  chasm  and  singled  out  a 
small  piece  of  earth,  angular,  twisted  and  full  of  the  hard- 
est pebbles,  from  which  I  supposed  I  might  have  been 
formed  originally ;  with  curiosity,  yet,  I  hope,  with  be- 
coming piety,  I  picked  up  my  ancestor  and  put  him  into 
my  pocket. 

At  once  the  youths  stop  the  dance  and  gather  round 
the  stranger  who  has  so  suddenly  dropped  into  their 
midst  that  he  might  be  taken  for  a  phantom  fallen  from 
another  planet.  A  glass  of  wine  will  be  offered  him,  and 
he  will  not  refuse  it ;  then  follow  many  questions  concern- 
ing his  personality.  Notice  that  the  wine  is  first  given, 
then  come  the  interrogatories  —  another  Homeric  custom  ; 
perhaps,  however,  now  merely  an  accident.  A  lady  to- 
wards middle  age,  with  excusable  curiosity  revealed  in 
certain  inquiries  concerning  his  domestic  life,  invites  him 
to  stay  that  night  in  Agios  Blasios  at  her  house ;  but  look 
at  the  Sun  yonder,  balancing  himself  over  the  mountain  ; 
there  is  still  time  ere  the  luminary  slips  under  the  white 
cover  of  Parnassus  to  reach  Daulis,  which  lies  just  across 
the  valley,  rising  from  the  tops  of  the  grass  and  stretching 
itself  out  full  length  on  the  hill-side.  With  that  prospect 
before  his  eyes  rising  to  the  summit  of  glistening  Par- 
nassus the  traveler  will  turn  away  from  Panopeus,  though 
youths  and  maidens  are  still  springing  in  the  chorus,  and 
he  will  strike  out  into  the  meadow,  through  which  he  will 
leisurely  wander  without  an  adventure  till  he  reach  the 
foot  of  the  ascent. 

Again  we  are  in  the  track  of  mighty  events  of  the 
World' s  History:  it  was  at  Panopeus  that  Xerxes  divided 
his  army  after  crossing  over  from  Thermopylae.  The  one 
division  marched  to  the  West  against  Delphi,  the  other 
eastward  against  Athens.  Did  the  Oriental  despot  know 
what  he  was  doing  ?  I  think  that  he  did ;  skillfully  he 


FROM   CH^ERONEIA    TO  AKACHOBA.  311 

directed  his  blow  against  the  two  great  centers  of  Greek 
civilization.  The  one  was  the  Oracle,  the  instinctive  ex- 
pression of  wisdom,  upon  which  all  Greece  rested,  as  a 
child  upon  the  mother's  breast ;  this  he  would  assail  and 
destroy,  for  does  it  not  embody  the  hostility  of  the  Greek 
world  to  the  Orient?  Nor  was  the  fact  forgotten  that 
great  treasures  were  there  to  be  plundered.  Still  mightier 
was  the  blow  directed  against  Athens,  the  brain  of  Greece, 
in  which  was  to  be  found,  not  the  oracular  but  the  high- 
est self-conscious  manifestation  of  Hellenic  spirit.  Could 
he  but  smite  Athens  to  earth,  and  roll  Delphi  from  its 
eminence,  conquest  would  be  indeed  easy;  nought  else 
would  be  left  but  the  soulless  Greek  body. 

From  this  Panopeus  he  smote  in  the  two  directions, 
and  failed  utterly  in  both.  Yet  mark  the  difference  in 
the  kinds  of  defeat.  The  Delphic  repulse  of  the  Persian 
wa*  a  miracle,  it  came  from  the  hands  of  the  God  direct, 
who,  declaring  in  oracle,  that  he  would  take  care  of  his 
own,  girded  himself  in  his  sacred  armor  and  went  forth  ; 
crags  from  the  summit  of  Parnassus  fell  upon  the  ap- 
proaching foe.  Such  was  the  deed  of  the  God  at  Delphi, 
clearly  miraculous.  But  how  at  Athens?  To  it  also  an 
oracle  had  been  given,  ambiguous,  soul-perplexing,  speak- 
ing of  wooden  walls  ;  what  doos  it  mean  ?  It  is  enough 
to  know  that  Athens  possessed  the  intelligence  to  inter- 
pret it  aright ;  that  is  then  the  main  thing,  the  interpre- 
tation, and  not  the  oracle.  So  the  Athenians  went  aboard 
their  wooden  walls,  product  of  their  own  brains,  and 
controlled  by  their  own  skill,  and  smote  the  foe ;  it  is 
victory  not  only  over  the  Orient,  but  over  the  Oracle  too  ; 
henceforth  Athens  is  to  be  the  seat  of  Intelligence,  and 
not  Delphi. 

So  the  Pe'rsian  assailed  the  two  centers  of  Greek  spirit, 
the  unconscious,  instinctive  one,  that  of  the  Oracle,  ami 
the  self-conscious,  self-determining  one,  that  of  Intelli- 
gence. Around  these  spiritual  centers  Greek  history 
moves ;  in  the  Persian  War  they  are  in  harmony,  but  in 
the  Peloponnesian  War  they  become  hostile  to  each  other, 
and  the  Greek  world  is  rent  to  death  witli  their  strifeful 
contradiction.  It  adumbrates  the  deepest  dualism  of  the 


312  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

Hellenic  mind ;  indeed  of  all  mind ;  it  is  the  eternal  bat- 
tle between  the  old  Faith  and  the  new  Reason.  That 
road  too  we  shall  have  to  travel ;  to  both  these  centers, 
Delphi  and  Athens,  we  must  journey,  yet  with  far  dif- 
ferent purpose  from  that  of  Xerxes,  if  we  wish  to  gain 
the  victory.  Already  we  are  within  a  day's  walk  of  the 
Delphic  Oracle,  whence  we  may  hope  to  make  in  time 
the  transition  to  Athenian  Intelligence.  But  let  us  look 
up,  we  are  not  yet  at  Delphi  by  any  means ;  here  before 
us  is  Daulis,  whose  outskirts  we  are  now  touching  with 
fresh  joy,  for  we  have  reached  our  day's  destination. 

Daulis  is  a  pleasant  village  lying  at  this  moment  along 
the  slope  in  the  last  handful  of  sunbeams  which  Helius 
is  throwing  over  the  top  of  Parnassus  ere  he  drop  quietly 
behind  it.  This  is  a  Greek  village  with  more  abundant 
signs  of  prosperity  than  usual ;  houses  seem  to  be  newer 
and  in  better  order,  streets  are  somewhat  improved, 
cotton  mills  can  be  noticed.  On  the  whole  one  feels  that 
there  must  be  a  little  young  life  and  enterprise  in  the 
town ;  it  sends  a  small  fresh  breath  of  the  modern  world 
as  the  traveler  touches  the  foot  of  Parnassus. 

A  winding  alley  leads  to  the  house  of  the  Demarch,  or 
Mayor,  of  this  rural  district,  to  whom  I  bear  a  letter  of 
introduction.  His  dwelling  is  a  substantial  structure,  in 
the  lower  story  of  which  is  the  stable,  while  in  the  upper 
is  the  abode  of  the  family.  As  I  ascend  the  little  knoll 
upon  which  the  house  is  built,  the  dogs  issue  forth  with 
their  salutation,  fiercely  snapping  their  teeth  around  a 
circle  of  which  I  am  the  center  and  of  which  the  radius 
is  my  walking-stick.  Soon  a  large  buxom  girl  ap- 
peared on  the  knoll  with  a  stone  in  her  hand,  which  she 
hurled  at  the  dogs  with  great  force  and  with  such 
excellent  aim  that  they  were  sent  off  yelping.  A  re- 
markably stout,  full  figure  was  hers ;  health  sat  in  her 
cheeks,  strength  was  couched  in  her  arms,  and  in  her  body 
so  massive  and  well-developed  Nature  seemed  to  be  tak- 
ing an  unstinted  Greek  holiday.  But  what  I  most  admired 
was  the  growth  of  her  hair,  which  hung  in  a  long  broad 
braid  far  down  her  back,  switching  from  side  to  side  in 
youthful,  frolicksome  sportiveness  whenever  she  moved, 


FROM   CH^ERONEIA    TO  ARACUOBA.  313 

and  dropping  in  a  coil  into  her.  lap  as  she  sat  down. 
Everywhere  now  such  braids  are  observable  ;  it  seems  to 
be  the  universal  custom  here  with  young  and  old  to  wear 
them ;  even  gray  hair  one  may  notice  plaited  in  this  way. 
Thread,  too,  is  used  when  the  natural  growth  is  not  suf- 
ficient ;  so  much  falsity,  at  least,  has  penetrated  to  the 
base  of  Parnassus. 

Up  a  flight  of  stairs  on  the  outside  of  the  house  the 
maiden  conducts  me  to  the  second  story,  where  the 
mother  receives  me.  I  offer  her  my  letter  of  introduc- 
tion, she  makes  a  sign  of  friendly  refusal,  which  only 
meant  that  she  could  not  read  the  document.  Her  hus- 
band, the  Demarch,  was  not  in  just  then,  and  she  bade 
me  wait  till  he  returned.  One  after  another  the  daugh- 
ters entered,  first,  second,  third  ;  to  these  must  be  added 
a  young  daughter-in-law,  quite  the  handsomest  of  the  lot, 
who  was  also  an  inmate  of  the  house  ;  each  of  them  walked 
up  to  the  stranger  and  gave  a  hearty  shake  of  the  hand, 
with  friendly  greeting  of  words.  After  the  customary 
sweetmeat  with  a  glass  of  water,  we  all  sit  down  together 
around  the  fire  on  mats  and  rugs  ;  a  chair  is  brought  for 
me,  which  I  refuse  ;  I  insist  upon  squatting  together  with 
them  at  the  hearth.  They  remove  their  papoutzi  or 
moccasin-like  shoes  when  they  enter  the  room,  which  ac- 
tion of  theirs  reveals  stockingless  feet,  natural  as  life.  I 
also  pull  off  my  shoes,  crouch  down  on  a  rug  and  cross 
my  legs,  determined  to  be  one  of  the  household,  though 
midst  the  bantering  and  tittering  of  those  maidens. 

Yet  in  one  respect  I  have  to  confess  to  my  weakness. 
I  am  as  yet  not  able  to  work  myself  fully  up  to  the  Greek 
stand-point ;  though  the  whole  household  is  sitting  bare- 
footed around  me,  I  can  not  bring  together  resolution 
enough  to  cast  off  the  last  cover  of  respect  for  the  pedal 
extremities.  Still  I  like  the  custom  ;  it  is  both  pleasant 
and  instructive  to  behold  a  human  being  stripped  of  con- 
ventionalities for  once  —  to  see  what  sort  of  a  thing  he  is 
anyhow  underneath  all  that  society  and  custom  have 
swaddled  him  with.  Very  strange  do  I  seem  to  myself 
wrestling  now  with  such  a  problem,  and  defeated  inglori- 
ously  in  the  struggle.  For  I,  the  cowardly  child  of  custom, 


314  A    WALK  7iV  HELLAS. 

can  not  summon  courage  sufficient  to  throw  off  my 
stockings  and  be  like  the  others,  here  in  Greece  where 
shining  examples  are  before  me,  anciently  bare-footed 
Socrates  and  Phocion,  in  modern  times  young  ladies  sitting 
in  a  row  around  the  hearth  of  the  Demarch.  Such  degen- 
eracy lurks  in  the  might  of  fashion,  laying  supreme  stress 
on  the  unimportant  things  of  life ;  for  wherein  is  the  in- 
dividual with  draped  feet  so  much  better  than  he  with  feet 
undraped  ?  Still  I  was  ashamed  in  defiance  of  reason  and 
example,  and  was  utterly  unable  to  tear  off  from  me  that 
merely  conventional  rag. 

But  I  refused  the  chair  which  they  offered,  and  cow- 
ered down  on  the  rugs  there  —  give  me  credit  for  that ; 
then  I  entered  into  a  lively  chat  with  the  girls.  They 
did  not  understand  my  Greek  very  well,  it  was  book-Greek, 
they  said.  None  of  them  can  read  or  write,  there  is  no 
school  for  girls  in  the  place,  they  talk  the  pure  Parnas- 
sian dialect,  undiluted  with  Attic  felicities.  Then  exero 
gramma  fa,  I  don't  know  letters  —  said  the  youngest  with 
a  face  darting  sparkles  of  laughter  and  mockery  that  came 
directly  from  the  Mount  of  the  Muses  now  just  over  our 
heads.  But  there  is  present  a  young  son,  twelve  or 
thirteen  years  old,  who  goes  to  the  boys'  school  in  the 
town ;  he  acts  as  translator  of  all  the  big  unintelligible 
words  which  I  employ  in  talking  to  his  sisters.  An  unu- 
sually intelligent  boy  he  shows  himself  to  be,  the  type  of 
what  one  conceives  the  bright  Greek  boy  to  have  been 
anciently,  full  of  quickness,  versatility  and  youthful  ac- 
quirements. The  American  schoolmaster  examines  him 
with  much  interest,  and  acknowledeges  not  to  have  seen 
many  youths  equal  to  him  in  attainments  and  rapid  per- 
ception ;  more  plain  than  ever  does  it  become  that  we  are 
crossing  the  boundaries  of  a  new  people,  altogether  dis- 
tinct from  the  stolid  Albanian  race  on  the  line  of  our 
march  hitherto.  The  boy  shows  not  unwillingly  what  he 
is ;  he  reads,  writes  and  recites  for  me  many  a  passage 
from  the  old  classics,  particularly  from  Xenophou,  re- 
peating choice  morsels  from  memory. 

But  the  girls  there  —  we  can  not  pass  them  by  for  the 
sake  of  ancient  erudition  or  of  small  interesting  boys  — 


FROM  CH^EROXEIA   TO  AKACHOBA.  315 

the  mischievous,  merciless  girls,  whispering  and  snigger- 
ing among  themselves  —  the  frolicsome,  heavy-bosomed 
girls  sit  there  solidly,  full  of  mockery  and  rude  humor, 
unfolding  an  exuberant  natural  plenitude  of  figure  with 
corresponding  animal  spirits.  Curious  questions  they 
asked  me  about  my  country  and  my  affairs  —  among 
others,  whether  I  had  a  wife  at  home  ?  They  beg  me  to 
say  something  in  my  native  speech,  which  I  do  ;  they  seek 
to  repeat  the  same  with  many  a  twist  of  the  mouth  and 
blunder,  ending  always  in  a  round  of  laughter.  On  re- 
quest I  told  them  my  name ;  the  }roungest  sought  to 
master  it  in  vain,  and  then  declared  that  she  would  not 
own  such  a  name  —  never.  Thus  was  my  fate  sealed. 
In  the  meantime  they  do  not  forget  to  keep  stirring  the 
pot  of  beans  which  is  cooking  over  the  fire  ;  first  the  one 
and  then  the  other  takes  the  ladle  and  stirs ;  I  too  take 
hold  and  stir  when  my  turn  comes.  I  spoke  of  the  wed- 
ding at  Chaeroneia,  when  the  oldest  daughter  invited  me 
to  her  wedding,  which  was  to  take  place  in  a  few  days. 
In  the  course  of  my  visit  I  was  introduced  to  the  bride- 
groom, who  thrust  at  me  with  no  little  difficulty  the  fol- 
lowing sentence  in  Latin :  Delenda  est  Carthago.  Why 
just  that,  I  beg?  He  had  heard  that  I  was  a  Didaskali ; 
he,  too,  had  been  at  school  and  had  studied  the  rudiments 
of  Latin. 

Such  a  merry  time  the  traveler  will  have  at  Daulis 
under  Parnassus,  beneath  the  hospitable  roof  of  the 
Demarch.  But  the  old  mother  who  sits  near  the  jamb 
in  moody  quiet  seeks  at  times  to  restrain  the  mirth- 
ful daughters.  I  noticed  that  she  frequently  fetched 
a  deep  sigh  with  a  peculiar  melancholy  intonation. 
The  daughfeer-in-law,  too,  uttered  twice  or  thrice  the 
same  doleful  modulation,  though  she  shared  in  our  jollity 
during  the  intervals.  But  when  merry-making  Marigo,  the 
youngest  and  lightest-hearted  of  us  all,  gave  that  profound 
sigh  of  wretchedness  between  two  fits  of  merriment  I 
could  not  help  asking  her  what  she  meant — are  you 
then  so  unhappy,  Marigo  ?  Tell  me,  what  is  the  cause  ?  — 
I  expected  a  story  of  the  old  sort,  but  there  came  a  sud- 
den change.  It  seems  that  the  family  was  in  mourning, 


316  A    WALK  J2V  HELLAS. 

and  this  was  its  expression.  A  grown  son  had  died  some 
months  previously,  a  noble  palicari,  as  they  said  prais- 
ingly.  It  is  the  duty  of  the  women  sitting  around  the 
domestic  hearth  to  moan,  seeing  the  place  of  the  absent 
one ;  thus  they  utter  the  long  deep  sigh,  when  the  de- 
parted comes  up  in  memory  and  must  be  greeted  by  the 
living.  As  soon  as  the  salutation  is  ended  they  begin  to 
talk  again,  attend  to  the  duties  of  the  household  and 
laugh  if  there  be  occasion,  which  there  is  this  evening. 
Such  seems  to  be  a  part  of  the  ceremonial  of  mourning, 
as  we  once  before  noticed  at  Aulis ;  it  belongs  to  the 
duty  of  the  women  chiefly,  as  in  the  old  Homeric  times 
the  captive  maidens  of  Achilles  wept  openly  for  Patro- 
clus,  but  in  secret  each  for  her  own  sorrows. 

Finally  the  master  of  the  household  arrives  —  the 
father  —  and  salutes  his  unexpected  guest  with  great 
politeness.  He  is  indeed  the  master,  for  now  the  laugh- 
ter ceases,  the  women  retreat  from  the  hearth  and  take 
their  places  to  one  side,  even  in  corners;  silent  respect 
if  not  awe  becomes  suddenly  the  new  domestic  virtue, 
unsuspected  before ;  no  babble  now,  or  if  the  girls  do 
speak  to  one  another,  it  is  in  a  low  serious  whisper. 
Such  is  our  Demarch,  evidently  a  strict  man,  not  to  be 
trifled  with,  though  very  affable  to  strangers ;  I  hand 
him  my  letter  of  introduction,  which  he  reads  and  then 
he  gives  me  a  second  hearty  welcome.  The  elder  son, 
too,  has  come  home.  All  the  family  is  together,  the 
table  is  spread  —  the  low  table,  such  as  we  saw  at  Marco- 
poulo  and  elsewhere.  We  sit  around  it  on  our  haunches, 
cross-legged,  in  excellent  humor;  but  again  the  sarto- 
rius  begins  to  wriggle  for  pain,  refusing  to  be  wrenched 
about  and  sat  upon  in  that  style  any  longer. 

On  the  table  there  is  nothing  unusual  except  the  fa- 
mous Parnassian  cheese,  said  to  be  the  best  in  Greece ;  in 
it,  however,  I  could  taste  none  of  the  milk  of  the  Muses, 
but  good,  homely,  prosaic,  rather  sourish  curds  of  some 
Polyphemus.  Let  the  matter  be  left  to  good  judges  and 
to  cheese  eaters ;  far  other  diet  we  know  Parnassus  has 
produced,  and  it  is  to  be  hoped  will  yet  produce. 

The  women,  I  notice,  do  not  eat  with  us,  but  sit  off  in 


FROM  CH^EllONEIA   TO  ABACIIOSA.  317 

their  corners,  quietly  twirling  their  distaffs.  I  miss  them, 
regret  their  absence  in  secret,  and  finally  break  over  all 
restraints  of  propriety  and  ask  why  they  are  not  permit- 
ted to  share  the  meal  with  us.  Mas  stenocliorei  —  the}' 
are  a  bore,  said  the  strict  Demarch,  used  to  rigidly  en- 
forcing authority  and  precedence  in  his  household.  But 
I  am  sorry  for  the  change ;  there  they  sit  shyly  off  to  one 
side  in  the  fitful  dimness  of  the  fireplace ;  the  tireless 
merriment  and  honeyed  exuberance  of  youth  have  lapsed 
into  sedateness  and  silence.  Yes,  he  has  doubtless 
trouble  enough  to  restrain  those  wild,  rollicking  girls,  and 
keep  them  in  the  strait  coat  of  rigid  conventionality,  — 
for  are  they  not  young,  while  he  is  old  and  Demarch, 
too? 

Conversation  lasts  till  a  late  hour ;  father  and  son  are 
full  of  curiosity  about  distant  lands  and  strange  customs  ; 
particularly  eager  are  they  to  hear  about  America  and 
its  political  workings,  since  both  are  active^  politicians, 
and  are  now  engaged  in  an  election  for  the  Demarchate, 
the  father  being  a  candidate  for  another  term  of  that 
office.  Unconsciously  —  for  I  cannot  now  recollect  any 
intention,  though  the  scene  before  me  was  suggestive  — 
I  came  to  speak  of  the  superior  position  of  woman  in 
America,  how  that  she  too  has  the  opportunity  of  an  in- 
dependent as  well  as  an  honest  life  there  ;  how  that  cer- 
taiiw  occupations  are  becoming  almost  monopolized  by 
her  through  her  special  fitness  ;  in  general,  how  that  she 
is  regarded  there  as  a  free  human  being,  and  not  an  un- 
fortunate accident  among  men,  which  must  be  supplied 
with  a  dower  in  order  to  be  gotten  rid  of  by  marriage,  and 
which  is  to  be  tolerated  for  the  purpose  of  bringing  forth 
the  males  for  -the  perpetuation  and  delight  of  mankind. 
A  free,  complete  personality  she  is  getting  to  be  there, 
possessing  a  soul  in  her  own  right ;  thus  she  has  become 
rather  the  most  astonishing  of  all  America's  astonishing 
institutions. 

The  good  Demarch  assented  or  seemed  to  assent,  be- 
ing a  progressive  man,  he  says  ;  though  he  did  not  think 
that  Greece  was  prepared  for  all  that  just  jet.  But  I  was 
amused  at  myself,  and  began  to  wonder  where  I  would 


318  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

bring  up  in  the  end.  I  who  at  home  never  could  endure 
the  strong-minded  sister  battling  for  suffrage  with  red-hot 
philippics  against  the  tyrant  man,  seem  to  have  actually 
become  a  kind  of  Apostle  of  Woman's  Rights  here  in 
Greece.  Is  this  the  Greek  climate  again,  or  the  first  ef- 
fect of  Parnassus?  So  much,  however,  remains  true: 
the  necessity  of  female  education  will  be  insisted  upon  by 
every  warm  friend  of  the  country.  In  this  very  house, 
the  girls,  though  possessed  of  the  quickest  capacit}r  and 
brightest  intellects,  are  socially  paralyzed  because  they, 
letterless,  can  only  speak  the  rustic  dialect  of  their  vil- 
lage, even  if  it  be  a  Parnassian  dialect. 

Thus  the  Muse  of  Learning  neglects  her  own  sex  at 
Daulis,  right  at  the  foot  of  her  own  mountain.  What  can 
she  be  expected  to  do  elsewhere  in  Greece?  Quite  the 
same  thing  manifestly ;  no  schools  for  girls  are  found  in 
the  smaller  inland  towns.  Boys  alone  are  thought  worthy 
of  education ;  thus  the  country  devotes  half  of  its  brain  to 
ignorance.  Certainly  that  state  of  things  cannot  come  to 
good,  unless  we  believe  with  the  soldier  whom  we  met  not 
long  ago,  that  knowledge  is  the  Satan,  the  fell  destroyer 
of  mankind.  Many  foreign  writers  you  will  read  with  this 
continued  refrain :  Greece  is  over-educated.  But  she  is 
not  half  educated  when  a  half  of  her  people  remain  with- 
out schooling,  not  to  speak  of  male  illiteracy,  which  in 
some  localities  is  not  trifling. 

But  the  hours  demand  repose ;  the  traveler,  wearied 
with  the  journey  of  the  day  and  the  excitement  of  long- 
continued  sight-seeing,  wishes  for  his  cot.  Frequent 
yawns  have  already  broken  in  between  his  words  in  spite 
of  himself  ;  clearly  the  end  of  to-day  has  come.  A  mat- 
tress is  spread  upon  the^  floor  in  an  adjoining  room,  and 
in  one  second  he  is  with  the  dreams.  But  let  these  re- 
main unheralded  to  the  world  —  indeed  they  have  all 
passed  into  hopeless  oblivion.  Still  that  sweet  rest  repaid 
the  day's  fatigue ;  the  night  seemed  compressed  to  a 
moment's  point ;  for  when  a  gleam  of  light  fell  into  my 
eye  announcing  the  fleet  presence  of  Aurora  with  her  com- 
mand to  rise,  1  at  first  answered  the  silent  messenger  that 
Iliad  just  lain  down  —  then  noticing  her  still  over  me 


FROM  OH^EEONEIA    TO  ABAC  II  OB  A.  319 

with  ever  deepening  glances,  I  sprang  up  in  great  amaze- 
ment at  her  rapid  return,  and  gaAre  her  my  benediction. 

I  passed  back  to  the  former  room  where  is  the  family 
hearth ;  the  daughters  headed  by  the  mother  were  already 
up,  sitting  in  a  row  and  twirling  the  distaff,  quite  in  the 
old  Homeric  fashion,  one  will  fondly  imagine.  Not  a 
word  do  they  utter  now;  the  father  is  still  present, 
asleep  on  his  mat  alongside  of  the  fireplace.  They  are 
spinning  the  cotton  which  is  raised  in  the  valley ;  the 
Demai'ch  has  told  me  that  he  is  the  owner  of  cotton  mills 
driven  by  water  power.  Many  a  curious  fabric  is  made 
in  the  household  by  these  busy  fingers  of  women  —  rugs, 
carpets,  coverlets  of  divers  colors,  dyed  with  the  skill  of 
a  Maeonian  or  Carian  woman.  A  whole  stack  of  such 
fabrics  lies  in  the  adjoining  room,  piled  to  the  ceiling, 
beautifully  showing  the  manifold  cunning  of  the  weaver 
and  dyer.  Throughout  the  Parnassian  region  these 
articles  are  made  to  great  perfection,  and  the  enthusiastic 
tourist  will  behold  in  their  skill  another  trait  transmitted 
from  Homeric  times.  Labor-saving  machines  are  begin- 
ning to  penetrate  hither,  but  they  have  not  yet  obliterated 
the  curious  cunning  of  the  hand,  which  has  continued  to 
endure  through  Turkish  oppression,  and  through  the  more 
dangerous  machinery  which  is  the  product  of  civilization. 

You  will  respect  the  silence  of  the  family  and  the  slum- 
ber of  the  Demarch  ;  go  out  then  to  the  veranda  and  take 
a  look  before  sunrise  down  the  valley  of  the  Kephissus  to 
Copaic  lake.  It  is  a  long  level  stretch  of  country,  now 
in  a  green  tremulous  undulation  of  grass  and  grain  ;  it  is 
said  to  have  been  very  fertile  in  antiquity  and  bordered 
with  rich  and  populous  cities.  All  over  it  fierce  battles 
have  been  fought  for  the  mastery  of  empires,  vast  armies 
in  the  struggles  between  the  East  and  the  West  have  met 
here  to  settle  that  Oriental  question  still  unsettled.  Now 
the  vale  lies  altogether  out  of  the  way  of  traffic  and  war  — 
a  quite,  retired  vale,  remote  from  the  world's  highway. 
Thus  it  rests  now  in  peace  and  calm  cheerfulness. 

The  Sun,  though  not  fully  uprisen  yet,  spreads  out  a 
golden  fan  in  the  Eastern  sky,  from  behind  the  peak  of 
a  distant  mountain ;  gradually  he  raises  himself  up, 


320  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

peering  over  the  summit  with  glowing  face  as  if  to  salute 
3rou  ;  then  he  begins  flinging  his  treasures  all  glittering,  like 
a  sower  sowing  sparkling  grnin  over  the  whole  width  of 
the  valley.  Helicon  on  the  right  is  intoning  a  subtle, 
voiceless  music,  a  silent  laugh  it  seems  in  the  sunbeams ; 
may  we  not  wonder  whether  it  be  the  Muses  waking  up 
to  the  harmonious  bright  lyre  of  Apollo,  and  chanting  in 
unison?  Meantime  the  Sun's  eye  has  begun  to  look  into 
yours  straight  and  rather  sharp ;  the  steady  glance  of 
the  God  is  making  you  blink,  when  the  friendly  host  calls 
and  conducts  you  to  the  coffee-house  for  a  glass  of  sunlit 
recinato,  adding  new  beams  to  the  morning. 

He  has  business,  political  business ;  that  candidacy  of 
his  will  not  let  him  rest ;  man  is  a  political  animal,  saith 
Aristotle  ;  already  several  animals  of  that  species  are  as- 
sembled in  the  coffee-house,  ready  to  open  the  gabble  of 
discussion.  I  surmise  that  he  wishes  to  get  rid  of  his 
guest,  I  know  that  his  guest  wishes  to  get  rid  of  him  un- 
der such  circumstances ;  moreover,  fine  hillsides  are 
yonder  with  running  streams,  the  ruins  of  an  ancient 
acropolis  can  be  seen  on  an  opposite  hilltop ;  Parnassus 
beckons  up  to  its  snow-line  bound  around  the  brow  of  the 
mountain  like  the  white  fillet  of  a  priestess.  After  prom- 
ising to  return  for  dinner,  I  start  briskly  for  the  heights, 
above  the  town. 

It  is  truly  a  happy  Greek  morning,  more  deeply  attuned 
to  secret  melodious  Nature  than  elsewhere,  one  thinks 
now ;  for  it  is  the  chief  merit,  I  hold,  of  the  traveler,  that 
out  of  common  things  he  can  make  wonders,  —  that 
in  washerwomen  washing  at  the  stream,  he  can  see 
nymphs  of  the  brook,  that  to  prosaic  reality  he  can  give 
the  fresh  flush  of  an  image,  but  above  all,  that  in  Greece 
he  can  everywhere  behold  the  antique  world  springing 
into  new  life  again.  At  home  he  would  not  give  a  look 
to  what  now  sets  every  nerve  to  tingling  with  delight ;  it 
is  the  land  which  thus  inspires  the  Greek  mood,  bursting 
up  at  times  into  rapture  in  spite  of  all  the  restraints  which 
propriety  lays  upon  him.  Let  him  look  at  the  sources 
that  spring  forth  in  many  places  on  the  side  of  the 
mountain  up  which  we  are  now  going,  then  dash  down  the 


FROM   CH^EEONEIA    TO  ARACHOBA.  321 

slope  through  the  town  to  the  valley ;  they  are  long- 
tressed  water-nymphs  running  off  with  silvery  hair  stream- 
ing behind  till  they  disappear  in  the  embrace  of  some 
river-god  in  the  distance. 

Thus  we  pass  up  the  mountain  above  Daulis  and  look 
down :  who  can  wonder  if  the  grateful  inhabitant  once 
paid  worship  to  the  Naiad  who  dwells  in,  or  rather  is  the 
stream,  now  babbling  above  ground,  now  running  in  sub- 
terraneous conduit  till  her  waters  gush  forth  in  a  foun- 
tain on  the  market-place  ?  Still  let  us  go  upward,  often 
turning  around  and  glancing  over  village  and  valley ;  the 
scene  cannot  be  imparted  to  you,  but  every  glance  sent 
out  upon  its  little  errand,  wanders  like  a  bee  over  the 
sunny  fields  and  hillsides  and  brings  back  much  honey 
from  the  flowers  there.  Now  we  have  come  to  that 
snow-line  so  long  visible  from  below ;  first  are  the  scat- 
tered flakes  with  undersides  slowly  melting,  drooping  away 
in  the  battle  with  the  sunbeams,  but  higher  up  the  sur- 
face of  the  ground  is  covered  white  and  crisp.  On  the 
edge  above  is  the  heavy  cornice  of  snow  jutting  out  like 
purest  marble  ;  but  far  beyond  in  the  distance,  reaching 
up  to  the  clouds,  is  the  dazzling  peak  of  Liacuri, 
highest  of  the  Parnassian  range.  Not  to-day,  not  to-day, 
ye  beckoning  summits  ;  but  if  Time  holds  out  with  us,  we 
shall  reach  you  yet. 

Along  another  eminence  lies  a  monastery,  but  thither  we 
shall  not  ascend, we  are  not  seeking  monasteries  in  Greece, 
in  spite  of  all  their  charity  and  hospitality.  This  one  is 
called  Jerusalem,  but  Jerusalem  in  Hellenic  life  is  a  dis- 
sonance, and  it  becomes  a  rude  jolt  on  Parnassus.  The 
building  is  beautifully  situated,  overlooking  mountain  and 
woody  glen  ;  but  the  traveler  from  the  Occident  need  not 
go  there,  for  he  has  the  old  and  the  new  Jerusalem  at 
home,  mostly  harmonious,  but  sometimes  jarring  with 
notes  of  social  and  religious  discord.  So  he  will  pass 
down  the  slope,  across  the  ravine,  and  up  to  the  acropolis 
of  ancient  Daulis,  rude  crown  of  stone  set  on  the  brow 
of  the  hill,  celebrated  in  legend  and  history. 

One  of  those  transformations  so  well  known  in  Greek 
Mythology  occurred  upon  this  spot  —  the  legend  taking 

21 


322  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

its  rise  from  the  peculiar  mournful  strain  of  the  nightin- 
gale, called  the  Daulian  bird  by  the  cold-blooded  rapture- 
less  Thucydides,  citing  the  title  from  the  Poets.  In 
antiquity  it  was  a  famous  bird  story,  rather  the  most 
famous  one  of  the  kind,  unfolding  deepest  horrors  of 
human  destiny,  blood-curdling  with  savage  guilt  and 
more  savage  retribution.  In  the  nightingale's  song, 
Philomela  laments  her  ravishment  forever ;  still  the  groves 
of  Daulis  are  said  to  gush  waves  of  her  plaintive  notes  on 
the  air  of  the  warm  spring  nights.  Even  this  horrible 
stoiy  one  may  prefer  to  think  of  at  Daulis  to  thinking  of 
the  discordant  monastery  —  for  we  must  have  Greek  dis- 
cords now,  if  any. 

Here  the  old  town  lay,  resting  upon  this  steep-walled 
summit  for  the  sake  of  securitjr,  while  the  modern  town 
has  forsaken  the  ancient  site,  and  lies  below  on  the  first 
gentle  slope  from  the  plain,  happily  without  danger  from 
hostile  neighbor  or  wandering  freebooter.  The  stone 
walls  have  fallen  to  ruin,  they  protect  nothing  now,  the 
external  violence  against  which  they  rose  as  a  barrier  is  no 
longer  feared.  But  a  new  power  has  taken  their  place, 
for  modern  Daulis  is  not  without  protection,  though  it 
has  abandoned,  like  a  new-fledged  bird,  its  ancient  nest 
of  granite.  The  stone  wall  has  been  changed  to  a  spiritual 
wall,  far  stronger,  more  inaccessible  ;  the  village  can  now 
pass  down  from  its  mountain  fastness  to  the  hillside  and 
the  plain,  and  there  rest  in  security.  What  are,  then,  these 
new  walls  of  Daulis?  Institutions  we  may  call  them,  most 
impregnable  of  all  terrestrial  fortifications,  invisible  to 
the  naked  eye,  it  is  true,  but  making  the  modern  town  far 
stronger,  safer  and  freer  than  the  old  one,  wrapping  it  in 
a  coat  of  adamant,  which  can  only  be  broken  when  all 
Greece  is  broken.  Anciently  it  was  not  thus ;  each  town 
for  the  most  part  had  to  defend  itself  separately,  and  to 
be  ready  at  any  moment  to  meet  the  hostile  incursion 
single-handed.  Such  is  the  one  side,  not  the  bright  one, 
of  autonomy,  the  side  of  scission,  separation,  discord. 
Hence  Daulis  had  to  build  stone  walls  for  protection,  the 
spiritual  walls  were  not  yet  built,  though  prophesied  in 
those  of  stone  ;  these  ruins  lying  here  deserted,  are  a  dead 


FROM  CH^ERONEIA   TO  AEACHOBA.  323 

body,  quite  decayed,  out  of  which  the  spirit  has  fled  and 
assumed  a  purer,  more  universal  form ;  that  new  form  of 
stone  walls,  girding  you  and  me  and  Daulis  is  the  modern 
institutional  world. 

Nor  can  the  observer  looking  off  from  such  a  height 
fail  to  think  of  the  education  which  it  gives  to  the  eye 
and  soul.  What  variety  in  this  little  view ;  a  clearly  de- 
fined world  to  be  taken  in  at  a  glance !  It  is  a  work  of 
Art,  this  landscape,  in  its  well-rounded  completeness.  A 
curious  gradation  of  seasons  with  all  their  products,  as 
he  looks  from  above  down  into  the  plain,  will  be 
noticed ;  winter  melts  in  the  lap  of  spring,  spring 
rushes  into  the  embraces  of  summer  down  the  side  of 
the  mountain.  But  it  is  time  to  leave  the  old  walls 
with  hoary  antiquity  and  hasten  to  something  modern, 
namely  the  dinner. 

I  found  the  house  of  the  Demarch  deserted  by  the 
women,  who  were  all  in  the  fields  or  occupied  out  of  doors ; 
only  the  eldest  son  was  at  home  and  he  was  getting  the 
dinner.  This  is  not  the  first  time  that  I  have  noticed  the 
Greek  men  performing  the  duties  of  cook ;  in  fact  the 
high-spirited  palicari  seems  to  be  as  able  to  prepare  his 
meals  as  the  women  of  the  household.  And  an  excellent 
dinner  he  spread  before  us,  far  enough  from  being  a  Pa- 
risian dinner,  but  much  more  palatable  to  the  traveler  in 
Greece.  The  skill  with  which  he  managed  the  meat,  cut- 
ting it  into  small  pieces,  spitting  it,  roasting  it  before  the 
fire,  and  finally  setting  it  before  the  guest,  showed  that 
his  present  was  no  unfamiliar  task. 

Homeric  is  all  of  this,  too,  for  the  fact  is  worthy  of 
mention  only  as  a  little  jewel  still  brightly  shining  in  the 
actual  world,  and  adding  in  the  soul  of  the  traveler  new 
fresh  gleams  to  the  world-subduing  radiance  of  the  old 
poems.  Achilles,  the  sui-passing  Greek  Hero,  performed 
such  work  when  the  embassy  came  to  his  tent ;  fat  chines 
he  carved  in  portions  and  transfixed  the  parts  with  spits, 
while  Patroclus,  the  heroic  cook,  raked  the  glowing  coals 
apart  and  over  them  roasted  the  flesh,  strewing  the 
sacred  salt.  For  the  Greek  Hero  is  a  self-sufficient  man, 
he  is  able  to  do  everything  within  the  circle  of  his  mate- 


324  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

rial  existence,  he  is  the  subject  of  no  wants  which  he  can 
not  satisfy  himself.  If  he  wishes  cooked  meat,  he  can 
cook  it,  no  need  can  subjugate  him  anymore  than  Hector 
can,  otherwise  he  would  not  be  the  Hero,  would  not  be 
Achilles.  Great  and  glorious  is  the  victory  over  wants ; 
I  clap  my  hands  for  joy  when  I  witness  it.  For  what  is 
man  in  the  social  organism  now,  when  it  takes  the  labor 
of  some  thousands  of  men  to  make  the  button  on  his  coat? 
Hardly  more  than  the  pin's  point  which,  perchance,  he 
spends  his  life  in  sharpening.  Heroic  self-sufficient  life 
is  at  present  impossible ;  still  a  fresh  breath  of  it  wafts  to 
you  at  times  in  the  Greek  breezes  even  to-day. 

There  were  two  or  three  political  friends  of  the  Demarch 
who  had  come  from  the  village  to  take  dinner  with  him ; 
to  these,  of  course,  the  stranger  was  introduced.  Much 
good-will  they  expressed,  which  was  polite,  and,  as  I  be- 
lieve, sincere,  though  many  a  book  has  warned  us  against 
the  deceitful,  flattering  Greeks.  Then  the  Demarch  re- 
peated what  had  been  said  last  evening  about  the  position 
of  woman  in  America,  and  the  necessity  of  her  education. 
I  was  glad  to  see  that  this  fact  had  struck  deep  into  the 
mind  of  the  Demarch.  But  now  he  meets  with  violent 
contradiction  ;  one  of  the  guests  in  fustanella  and  red  fez 
with  golden  tassel  was  outraged  by  the  very  thought  of 
the  thing.  Yes  —  says  he  with  an  ironical  twist  of  the 
nose, —  education  for  women  — pepaideumenai  eispornari, 
educated  for  prostitutes.  Still  that  old  Athenian  concep- 
tion endures  then ;  still  the  woman  of  culture  is  deemed  a 
hetaera,  an  Aspasia.  Such  at  least  was  the  view  of  our 
golden-tasseled  guest:  education  destroys  female  virtue, 
ignorance  is  the  mighty  prop  of  chastity.  Then  he  began 
a  tirade  against  the  whole  civilization  of  the  Occident, 
which,  from  the  East,  appeared  to  him  simply  an  enoi*- 
mous  bordel. 

The  thing  nettled  me  a  little  at  first ;  again  I  strangely 
fell  into  being  the  apostle  of  woman  in  Greece.  More- 
over our  own  countrywoman  was  involved ;  and  what 
one  of  us  is  not  concerned  in  her  honor,  and  has  not  felt 
proud  of  her  when  we  have  seen  her  in  Europe,  after 
eliminating  the  upstarts,  the  title-worshipers,  the  bus- 


FBOM  CH^EEONEIA    TO  ARACHOBA.  ,        325 

band-seekers  —  a  goodly  but  ungodly  number,  it  must  be 
granted  ?  I  began  in  my  excitement  to  splutter  Greek, 
and  must  have  said  somewhat  as  follows :  Do  you  im- 
agine that  education  is  thrown  away  upon  women?  I 
tell  you,  you  are  never  going  to  regenerate  Greece  and 
the  East  till  woman  helps  you ;  you  will  eternally  fall 
behind.  Her  culture  is  transmitted  to  her  sons ;  they 
ought  to  start  in  the  world  with  a  double  inheritance,  that 
of  the  father  and  of  the  mother ;  but  a  child-bearing  ani- 
mai  you  make  her  now,  while  you  ought  to  raise  her  into 
a  brain-bearing  being.  Can  you  not  see  that  you  must 
forever  lag  behind  those  peoples  who  educate  their 
women?  You  excuse  the  backwardness  of  Greece,  you 
profess  anxiety  for  her  progress  —  double,  then,  at  once 
the  forces  of  your  children  by  educating  the  females. 
But  the  mother  not  only  transmits  herself,  she  also  gives 
her  nurture  to  the  young  and  her  character  to  society. 
Make  her  once  more  the  central  figure  of  37our  striving, 
as  the  ideal  Arete  in  the  Odj^ssey,  your  first  and  greatest 
book  of  education.  But  there  is  a  higher  view  —  the 
view  of  humanity,  and  not  of  Greece  merely.  The  recog- 
nition of  every  human  being,  man  or  woman,  as  a  self- 
unfolding,  self-governing  person,  is  the  basis  of  the  mod- 
ern world.  Woe  be  to  the  nation  which  denies  or  neglects 
that;  the  penalty  of  the  world's  history  is  written  in 
judgment  against  it.  A  soul  to  be  developed  into  free- 
dom a  woman  has  too ;  that  freedom  she  can  attain  only 
by  education ;  then  she  belongs  to  the  modern  world  and 
contributes  her  share '  to  its  existence.  Why  should 
woman  become  a  servile  instrument  and  remain  unfree? 
You  make  her  a  very  prostitute  by  such  a  use,  if  not  of 
her  virtue,  y&k  of  her  soul,  of  her  destiny  itself. 

Golden  recinato  continued  to  flow  during  our  talk, 
mellowing  the  ruffled  emotions  and  changing  its  own 
transparent  amber  in  the  glass  to  flashes  of  red  sunset  in 
our  cheeks  and  foreheads.  We  all  sprang  up  from  the 
table  with  the  most  intense  brotherly  affection,  when  I 
declared  that  1  must  set  out ;  the  fellows  embraced  and 
kissed  —  a  horrible  torture  to  me,  to  be  kissed  by  a  man, 
by  a  bearded  lip  with  bristles  thrust  into  the  nostrils  and 


326  4   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

tickling  them  to  tears.  Still  I,  holding  my  breath,  par- 
tially submitted  to  this  Greek  custom. 

We  separated  in  the  most  friendly  mood,  and  I  cer- 
tainly was  much  pleased  with  my  hospitable  entertainment 
at  the  house  of  the  Daulian  Demarch.  I  shall  give  him 
my  vote  at  all  events  against  any  opposing  candidate. 
On  the  door-sill,  as  I  passed  out,  stood  the  daughter-in- 
law,  the  sweet-faced,  with  a  subdued  melancholy  tinge 
softly  blending  through  her  bright  features  —  a  strain 
like  that  of  the  Daulian  bird,  Philomela.  Her  husband, 
a  fine  youthful  figure,  stood  beside  her ;  she  had  the  face 
which  I  wanted  to  kiss,  and  perchance  emboldened  by 
King  Recinato  I  determined  to  try,  in  the  presence  of  her 
lord  of  course.  I  plead  an  American  custom  with  a 
strange  lapse  of  memory,  saying  that  the  guest  at  his  de- 
parture is  accustomed  to  kiss  the  hostess ;  but  I  failed ; 
she  turned  aside,  declaring  with  a  laugh  in  which  the  hus- 
band joined:  kake  sunetheia  —  bad  custom.  I  darted 
through  the  door  pursued  by  the  merriment  of  the  com- 
pany, and  walked  rapidly  up  the  path  toward  Parnassus. 
Soon  the  way  leads  over  the  comb  of  hills  towards  Ara- 
choba  Kalligynaika,  whose  fame  for  beautiful  women  has 
often  been  heralded  along  our  route.  Daulis  is  now  out 
of  sight. 

It  is  already  afternoon,  many  a  brook  fed  by  the  melt- 
ing snows  comes  running  down  the  slopes  in  wild  cas- 
cades, on  every  side  mountains  raise  themselves  up 
mightily  toward  the  skies,  chief est  among  which  is  hoary 
Liacuri.  The  eye  struggles  up  the  shaggy  sides  of  the 
giant  to  the  top,  with  a  sense  of  terrific  labor.  The  nar- 
row glen  grows  perceptibly  darker  as  one  descends,  feel- 
ing as  if  he  were  in  the  initiatory  passage  to  some  great 
mystery.  But  here  is  a  youth  in  the  road,  driving  two 
donkeys  laden  with  merchandise,  and  going  to  Delphi, 
he  says.  Now  he  informs  me  that  we  have  reached  the 
Schiste,  or  Split  Way,  which  is  formed  by  three  roads 
coming  together  through  three  mountainous  defiles. 

This  spot  was  renowned  in  ancient  legend ;  here  Oedi- 
pus slew  his  father  Laios  unwittingly,  as  the  latter  met 
him  upon  the  narrow  road ;  a  pile  of  stones  was  anciently 


FROM  CH^EEONEIA    TO  AEACHOBA.  327 

pointed  out  as  the  tomb  of  the  fate-stricken  parent. 
What  is  the  import  of  that  fearful  deed?  Beware  of  vio- 
lence to  the  unknown  stranger  whom  thou  meetest  in  this 
narrow  passage  —  he  may  be  thy  father,  and  is  certain  to 
be  tliy  brother.  Such  was  the  utterance  of  the  ancient 
pile  of  stones  heaped  over  Laios  at  the  junction  of  the 
Triple  Way  —  a  warning  of  Brotherhood  to  the  way- 
farer, and  to  the  pilgrims  who  flocked  by  this  road  to  the 
Delphic  shrine :  we  may  think  of  it  as  the  first  warning  of 
the  God. 

Thus  the  ancient  legend  was  one  of  dire  significance  ; 
but  there  is  also  in  this  locality  a  modern  legend,  even 
more  terrible  —  it  is  the  story  of  rapine  and  wild  ferocity. 
A  band  of  brigands  made  their  home  here  at  the  cross- 
ing, robbed  and  murdered  travelers,  and  drew  upon  the 
neighboring  peasants  for  food  and  support.  Then  the 
soldiers  surprised  them  and  all  were  cut  off.  Driven  by 
Turkish  oppression  to  mountain  fastnesses  men  became 
robbers,  and  plundered  the  commerce  of  their  tyrants,  till 
the  fate  of  their  victims  became  their  own.  So  the  youth 
tells  me  with  an  evident  mythical  tendency,  interrupting 
his  tale  with  frequent  ejaculations  at  the  donkeys.  It  is 
the  substance  of  many  a  Klephtic  song,  in  fact  the  chief 
theme  of  modern  Greek  poetry.  The  Turkish  rule  swept 
away  wealth,  culture,  civil  instincts  which  had  been  left 
from  antiquity ;  there  remained  the  undying  love  of  in- 
dependence in  all  its  ferocious  rudeness,  such  as  the 
primitive  Greek  possessed  at  the  dawn  of  history. 

At  any  rate  the  two  legends  —  the  ancient  and  the  mod- 
ern —  meet  at  the  Split  Way,  both  of  bloody  encounter 
and  tragic  destiny,  both  characteristic  of  their  respective 
times.  The  one  speaks  of  domestic  fate,  the  other  of 
social  disruption ;  the  one  reveals  an  inner  conflict  which 
is  a  problem  of  soul,  the  unconscious  guilt  of  Oedipus  — 
the  other  exhibits  a  dire  external  power  falling  upon  man 
and  driving  him  into  the  guilt  of  the  brigand,  into 
hostility  to  society.  The  one  with  its  deep  spiritual  im- 
port can  give  us  a  work  of  art,  many  works  of  art  will 
flow  from  it,  and  thus  there  bursts  up  here  at  the  Split 
Way  that  red  fountain  of  Theban  tragedy ;  the  other  is, 


328  A  WALK  IN"  HELLAS. 

and  must  remain,  a  story  of  wild  savagery,  of  men  like 
the  beasts  of  the  mountain,  destroying  cruelly,  cruelly 
being  destroyed  —  yet  with  plaintive,  tragic  notes  run- 
ning through  it  of  Nature's  own  utterance.  We  pass  by 
the  place,  the  youth  at  my  side  cannot  help  feeling  a  sort 
of  terror  at  the  tale  which  he  is  telling.  Possibly  he  has 
a  little  of  the  brigand  in  him,  of  secret  sympathy  with 
that  kind  of  modern  Greek  heroes,  and  so  is  in  reality 
recounting  his  own  tragedy.  Now  we  ascend  again,  up 
the  glen  with  mountains  towering  heavily  on  either  hand, 
through  wild,  gigantic  darkened  scenery,  quite  enough  to 
inspire  awe  in  the  Delphic  pilgrim  in  connection  with 
those  blood-stained  stories  acting  themselves  in  the  im- 
agination. 

I  leave  my  companion  and  go  out  of  the  way  to  in- 
spect a  little  eminence,  upon  the  crown  of  which,  in 
former  ages,  stood  a  walled  town ;  still  the  entire  circuit 
of  the  wall,  made  of  immense  rough-hewn  stone-blocks, 
lies  here  in  its  old  position.  Now  the  spot  is  utterly 
desolate,  not  even  the  name  can  be  accurately  ascer- 
tained—  probably  it  is  the  Homeric  Kyparissos,  men- 
tioned in  the  Catalogue.  Here  it  stood,  overlooking  the 
small  valley,  cultivating  the  little  stony  patch  of  soil  yon- 
der —  not  an  easy  existence ;  but  it  was,  one  may  well 
affirm,  an  independent  individual,  of  granite  texture, 
left  all  to  itself  here  in  the  mountains  to  fight  its  own 
battle  with  earth  and  man.  These  rocks  still  speak  of 
its  vigor,  of  its  self-reliance,  of  its  determination  to  de- 
fend itself ;  nay  this  little  rocky  nest  felt  the  universal 
Hellenic  throb  in  the  great  struggle  with  the  Orient  and 
sent  its  contingent  to  Troy ;  we  can  still  read  its  name 
in  the  old  muster-roll,  that  immortal  embalment  of  its 
one  deed. 

But  it  is  growing  late ;  I  had  hoped  to  see  Arachoba 
on  turning  around  this  intervening  clump  of  boulders ; 
but  no !  another  wide  semi-lunar  sweep  of  hills  greets 
the  eye,  a  new  rock-built  theater  •  in  the  mountains ; 
through  it  some  peasants  are  passing.  "  Where  is 
Arachoba?"  "  Beyond  and  much  higher  up  ;  you  will 
have  to  climb,"  and  they  pointed  over  the  hill- tops.  A 


FROM  CHJERONEIA   TO  AEACHOBA.  329 

woman  appears  and  a  young  maiden  ;  they  belong  to  the 
peasantry  and  are  returning  from  labor  in  the  fields  — 
straight,  perfect  figures,  with  the  mountain  complexion, 
a  delicate  red  in  their  cheeks.  The  erect,  stately  gait  as 
they  move  in  profile  against  the  hill-side  in  their  white 
garment, with  a  line  of  crimson  through  it,  lifts  the  wear- 
ied traveler  on  fresh  pinions,  and  he  forgets  the  way  yet 
untrod.  Note  again  that  costume,  with  its  twin  colors 
moving  along  in  the  distance  ;  it  is  the  most  striking  vis- 
ual thing  on  Parnassus  to-day.  A  red  apron  extends 
almost  from  neck  to  feet,  with  a  broad  red  girdle  around 
the  waist ;  under  it  is  the  short  white  dress  or  smock 
(camisia),  giving  the  snowy  background,  dashed  through 
as  it  were  with  crimson  jets.  Red  and  white  are  the 
simple  strong  colors,  placed  together  in  a  true  harmony, 
first  in  their  dress,  then  blended  in  their  cheeks,  as  you 
will  not  fail  to  notice  on  drawing  closer.  So  instinct  di- 
rects their  decoration  upon  the  mountains. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  see  that  the  new  type  of  people  of 
which  we  have  already  noted  faint  intimations,  has  now 
culminated  in  a  distinct  stock ;  the  physical  beauty  of 
these  peasants,  their  liveliness,  even  their  costume,  be- 
speak a  new  race.  They  are  rustics  ;  little  culture  can 
be  noticed,  but  nature  reveals  in  them  some  happy  mood, 
some  ideal  suggestion  which  one  would  fain  inquire  into 
more  deeply.  But  it  is  dusk  and  the  traveler  is  weary ; 
more  concerning  these  matters  he  will  doubtless  say  here- 
after. 

A  crowd  of  boorish  youths  join  us  going  toward  the 
town ;  from  them  I  received  the  only  treatment  like  rude- 
ness that  I  experienced  during  my  stay  in  this  region  — 
not  injury,  but  coarse  rusticity.  It  was  already  quite  late 
when  I  entered  Arachoba,  whose  houses  seemed  to^be 
rocking  in  dim  wavelets,  as  they  lay  strown  over  the 
ridges  of  the  mountain  side,  with  many  labyrinthine 
paths,  now  dark  and  doubly  devious,  winding  about 
among  the  dwellings.  A  friendly  hand  conducted  me  to 
the  abode  of  latri  Alexandros,  to  whom  my  Lebedeian 
friend  had  given  me  a  letter  of  introduction. 


330  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

Thus  the  modern  pilgrim,  on  his  way  to  the  shrine  of 
the  God,  has  arrived  at  what  may  be  called  an  outpost  of 
Delphi,  distant  now  hardly  more  than  an  hour's  sharp 
walk ;  he  is  alone,  not  another  pilgrim  has  been  seen  to- 
day on  the  sacred  road,  whose  blocks  of  paving  stone  still 
come  to  light  in  certain  spots  —  that  road  which  in 
antiquity  was  filled  with  lines  of  pilgrims  winding  through 
these  valleys  and  over  these  undulating  hill-sides  with 
worship  in  their  hearts.  All  day  the  long  streak  of  white 
tunics  has  accompanied  him,  though  it  be  invisible,  or  a 
ghostly  procession  ;  but  each  one  of  those  ghosts,  it  may 
be  noticed,  has  often  raised  his  eyes  up  to  the  snow- 
crowned  peak  of  Parnassus  in  some  secret  glee,  has  thrust 
his  staff  against  the  stones  for  support,  and  quickening 
his  pace,  has  looked  forward  in  eager  expectancy  of  the 
moment  when  the  white  columns  of  the  temple  would  joy- 
fully move  into  his  vision.  But  thither  not  to-night. 

And  now,  indulgent  fellow-traveler,  who  has  so  patiently 
clung  to  my  voice  thus  far,  may  I  address  thee  one 
apologetic  word,  needful  at  present,  for  our  mutual  un- 
derstanding, henceforth  not  to  be  mentioned  more.  Often 
have  I  spoken  to  thee  of  myself  in  this  journey,  with  due 
humility  I  hope,  yet  doubtless  not  without  due  apprecia- 
tion. But  I  feel,  and  I  would  have  thee  feel  that  what  I, 
as  simply  this  particular  person,  may  do,  is  nothing;  I 
am  nobody  as  long  as  I  am  myself  merely  and  nobody 
else.  But  if  I  may  be  able  to  be  what  thou  truly  art  or 
oughtest  to  be,  then  I  begin  to  be  of  interest  to  thee ;  and 
if  I  am  what  all  are  or  ought  to  be,  or  can  do  what  all  do 
or  ought  to  do,  then  I  begin  to  be  of  significance  to  many 
others  beside  thee ;  for  thus  I  am  not  the  first  person 
alone,  not  the  second  one,  but  I  rise  into  being  a  Universal 
Person,  which  is  my  true  destiny  as  well  as  thine,  the  true 
destiny  of  all  rational  creatures.  So  this  journey,  too,  — 
I  would  not  have  it  mine  alone ;  may  it  be  thine  also !  I 
have  made  it  for  thee,  whether  thou  wilt  accept  it  as  such 
or  not. 


THE  NEW  LIFE    OF  OLD  PAliNASSUS.         331 


XV.   THE    NEW  LIFE     OF  OLD  PARNASSUS. 

The  first  and  simplest  natural  fact  concerning  Arach- 
oba,  and  the  one  which  impresses  itself  most  strongly 
upon  the  mind  of  the  traveler  who  has  had  to  climb  so 
long  and  laboriously,  is  that  the  town  lies  near  the  top 
of  Parnassus.  A  very  insignificant  observation  indeed, 
and  in  the  eye  of  science  almost  valueless ;  but  this  natu- 
ral fact,  by  some  melodious  transmutation,  now  glides 
over  into  its  spiritual  counterpart,  and  becomes  suddenly 
endowed  with  a  living  soul ;  thus  it  is  a  genuine  my  thus, 
attuning  the  man  and  singing  its  own  transformation 
within  him ;  and  he  beholds,  as  he  looks  up  with  fresh 
vision,  not  merely  the  mountain  yonder  and  nothing  else, 
but  the  peak  of  the  Muses,  which  pierces  that  hard  outer 
crust  of  dead  rock  and  rises  beyond  into  the  spiritual 
heaven.  Such,  as  near  as  we  can  tell  it  now,  is  the  key- 
note of  the  new  mood  inspired  by  the  town. 

A  certain  fame  has  attached  to  Arachoba  all  along  our 
route  hitherto ;  this  fame  has  made  it  from  the  first  a 
central  point  in  our  journey.  It  is  conceded  by  the 
Greeks  themselves  to  possess  the  finest  examples  of 
female  beauty  to  be  found  in  Greece ;  such  a  rumor  we 
heard  at  Athens  before  starting ;  such  a  statement  we 
have  read  in  grave  books  which  laid  no  claim  to  admira- 
tion for  Helen.  The  town  seems  to  deserve  the  resonant 
Homeric  epithet  Jcalligunaika,  famed  for  beautiful  women  ; 
let  it  have  the  title,  with  the  full  effect  of  the  hexamet- 
ral  ending :  Arachoba  Jcalligunaika.  The  thought  and 
its  echoes  put  joy  into  the  bosom  of  the  traveler  as  he 
lies  down  to  rest  this  first  evening  in  the  place,  recollect- 
ing his  ardent  pursuit  of  the  image  which  now  burns  his 
very  heart  within.  Certainly  the  glimpse  of  Helen  was 
the  storm-defying  impulse  of  you  and  me  hitherto ;  all 
we  have  looked  at  with  Greek  playfulness,  shaded  here 
and  there  with  fateful  earnestness ;  the  fair  image  we 
have  pursued  with  the  joy  and  hope  of  a  lover,  yet  with 


332  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

his  pain,  too;  truly  there  has -been  a  shadow  of  pain  in 
our  joy  at  times,  a  longing  sweet  but  not  untroubled. 
So  much  for  confession  which  always  relieves  the  heart ; 
but  we  can  now  go  to  sleep  in  greater  secret  delight  than 
has  yet  been  felt,  and  dream  more  bravely. 

My  good  friend  of  Lebedeia  had  put  into  my  hand  a 
letter,  the  worth  of  which  I  shall  never  forget  —  it  was  a 
letter  introducing  me  to  Dr.  Alexandras  Androgiannes, 
of  Arachoba.  I  went  directly  to  his  house  and  was  most 
hospitably  received;  there  during  my  stay,  I  became 
acquainted  with  the  character  and  aspiration  of  the  edu- 
cated Greeks  who  dwell  in  the  provinces.  Of  this  class 
of  people  the  traveler  will  entertain  a  high  opinion ; 
moreover  he  will  form  many  friendly  attachments  which 
he  cannot  bear  to  part  with  forever,  but  will  promise  to 
return  at  some  future  time  to  renew  them. 

The  lady  of  the  house,  to  my  astonishment,  speaks 
English,  together  with  several  other  languages  of  modern 
Europe.  She  was  educated  at  Mrs.  Hill's  school  in 
Athens  ;  Mrs.  Hill  is  an  American  and  pioneer  of  female 
education  in  Greece.  I  took  pride  in  this  new  evidence 
of  the  fact  that  our  countrywoman  has  scattered  the 
seeds  of  culture  everywhere  among  the  women  of  Greece. 
This  Greek  lady  is  justly  regarded  as  the  most  cultivated 
woman  in  the  whole  country  around,  and  is  considered,  as 
I  afterward  found  out,  to  be  a  kind  of  ideal  for»the  entire 
Parnassian  region.  The  house  is  indeed  a  brilliant  point 
of  light  near  the  summit  of  Parnassus,  and  shining  over 
all  its  plains  and  valleys. 

Arachoba  is  a  thriving  place  of  some  four  thousand  in- 
habitants, according  to  the  estimate  of  one  of  its  citizens  ; 
its  chief  physical  peculiarity  is  the  fact  that  it  lies  further 
up  the  mountain  than  any  other  regularly  inhabited  town. 
So  high  is  it  situated  that  in  the  summer  it  is  always  cool ; 
in  the  winter  the  climate  cannot  be  called  severe,  though 
snow  frequently  falls  and  stays  some  time.  It  is  located 
along  a  rather  steep  slope  of  the  mountains,  having  in  it 
many  rugged  knobs  of  rock  and  natural  dells ;  indeed  it 
appears  from  the  distance  to  be  sliding  down  the  rough 
sides  of  an  immense  heaven-kissing  wave,  which  has  been 


THE  NEW  LIFE   OF  OLD  PAENASSUS.         333 

started  from  the  top  of  Parnassus.  Below  it  runs  the 
little  stream  called  Pleistus,  wreathed  in  a  far-extended 
green  band  of  olive  orchards. 

Opposite  the  town  the  view  is  cut  off  by  another  range 
of  mountains  called  the  Kirphis,  with  bare  precipice  fall- 
ing straight  to  the  Pleistus ;  between  the  two  ranges, 
Parnassus  and  Kirphis,  is  the  famous  Delphic  vale.  Only 
on  the  one  side,  on  the  Parnassian  slope,  are  there  any 
olive  orchards  or  vineyards.  But  in  this  narrow  valley 
there  is  a  variety  of  nature  almost  unlimited  ;  no  physical 
aspect  has  been  omitted  from  the  scene  ;  the  four  seasons 
lie  alongside  of  one  another  upon  the  mountain  slants. 

You  will  be  astonished  to  find  that  there  is  not  a  wagon 
road  in  the  large  town  of  Arachoba,  nor  any  use  for  one. 
The  Great  Highway,  which  we  left  some  time  ago,  does 
not  come  further  in  this  direction  than  Lebedeia.  Mule- 
paths  and  lanes  run  through  the  town  in  many  tortuous 
lines  ;  not  a  carriage,  wagon  or  cart  is  to  be  seen  ;  trans- 
portation of  every  kind  is  on  beasts  of  burden.  Many 
citizens  are  now  seeking  to  have  some  wheeled  communi- 
cation with  the  rest  of  the  world,  such  at  least  as  they 
had  in  the  very  dawn  of  antiquity ;  witness  the  chariot  of 
Laios,  and  the  processions  to  and  from  Delphi. 

The  houses  are  built  chiefly  of  stone  which  can  often 
be  quarried  from  the  spot  where  the  building  is  erected. 
There  are  several  stores,  coffee-houses,  wine-shops  in  the 
town ;  trade  is  active,  though  of  the  small  kind,  being 
carried  on  chiefly  by  means  of  copper  coins  which  are 
handed  to  the  customer  for  change  in  heavy  packages  of 
one  drachma.  A  dollar  thus  becomes  a  serious  incon- 
venience to  free  locomotion,  and  several  dollars  make  too 
much  money -to  be  carried  about.  For  larger  sums, 
Greek  paper  money  comes  to  the  relief  of  the  traveler 
who  has  to  transport  all  his  stores  afoot. 

There  is  one  leading  street  tying  between  two  promin- 
ent wineshops  ;  it  is  in  the  agora  or  assembling  place  of 
the  town,  where  they  talk  over  political  matters  inter- 
mingled with  gossip  of  all  kinds.  Arachoba  is  also  en- 
gaged in  the  election  of  a  Demarch ;  the  political  pot  is 
violently  seething  and  frothing,  indeed  it  threatens  to 


334  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

boil  over  on  the  side  of  Parnassus,  so  much  Greek  fire 
has  been  placed  under  it.  What  is  all  this  confusion 
about?  the  traveler  will  ask.  Obscure  local  issues  —  but 
they  will  not  detain  him  now,  he  need-  not  travel  to 
Greece  to  be  informed  of  the  nature  of  such  matters. 

It  is  the  height  of  the  olive  season ;  nearly  all  the  in- 
habitants, male  and  female,  old  and  young,  are  below  the 
town  in  the  orchards  picking  the  crop.  Donkeys  laden 
with  bags  of  olives  can  always  be  seen  toiling  up  the 
rocky  paths  of  the  village,  attended  by  a  child  or  a 
woman.  They  carry  their  burden  to  the  mill  where  the 
oil  is  pressed  out,  or  to  huge  barrels  for  preservation  in 
salt.  Some  of  the  men  have  already  begun  to  prune  their 
vineyards  ;  the  wine  of  Arachoba  is  excellent  and  in  much 
demand.  A  frugal,  industrious,  simple-hearted  people, 
living  in  sunny  idyllic  quietude  on  the  Parnassian  slope  ; 
but  they  become  strangely  capable  of  political  excitement 
on  Sundays  and  in  the  evening  when  they  return  from  the 
Olives. 

Look  at  the  mule  which  is  yonder  picking  its  way  over 
a  stony  lane,  with  gear  elaborately  adorned  in  every  part. 
You  will  think  of  those  Homeric  trappings  for  horses ;  it 
suggests  that  delight  in  tricking  out  animals  which  is 
manifested  in  more  than  one  passage  by  the  old  bard. 
The  mule  before  you  has  a  head-band  decorated  with 
shells  Y  and  a  breech-band  covered  with  beads ;  metallic 
ornaments  glitter  from  every  part  of  its  harness,  and 
it  moves  along  with  a  sort  of  low  jingle.  Behind  it 
strides  a  palicari  with  haughty  mien,  like  some  ancient 
Jove-born  king,  though  he  be  now  a  mule-driver. 
The  animal  is  laden  with  some  of  Arachoba' s  best  recinato 
for  a  distant  town,  Lamia,  it  is  said  on  inquiry ;  and  this 
gaudy  gear  seems  to  be  in  honor  of  the  noble  burden. 
Such  is  the  Homeric  mule,  still  visible  in  Parnassian 
Arachoba. 

Over  only  one  roof  in  the  entire  town  can  I  see  steam 
puffing  out  —  it  is  a  very  unusual  sight  in  this  part  of 
Greece ;  steam  is  still  a  modern  stranger  on  the  slope  of 
Parnassus.  I  enter  the  place  to  greet  my  old  acquaint- 
ance ;  I  find  an  olive  mill  crushing  the  fruit  and  pressing 


THE  NEW  LIFE   OF  OLD  PARNASSUS.         335 

out  the  oil.  But  a  still  more  unexpected  acquaintance  I 
met  there :  it  was  our  native  tongue  spoken  by  an  En- 
ligh  woman.  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  She  had  married 
a  Greek  who  had  resided  in  England  ;  now  he  has  returned 
to  his  native  town  to  introduce  steam  together  with  his 
English  wife.  But  the  steam  and  the  wife  were  indeed 
strangers  and  solitary  on  Parnassus.  She  is  not  ac- 
quainted with  the  Greek  language,  is  cut  off  from  all 
society,  and  in  fact  cannot  affiliate  with  Greek  customs. 
Not  a  favorable  cast  of  destiny,  one  would  think ;  here 
she  abides  in  a  strange  world,  as  if  some  power  had 
picked  her  up  from  merry  England  and  set  her  down 
on  a  new  planet.  A  female  Robinson  Crusoe  she  may  be 
called,  torn  from  social  existence  and  remanded  back  to 
a  mere  individual  life  with  one  family  at  most.  It  is  not 
a  desirable  state ;  for  what  is  man  without  the  world 
around  him?  which  world  he  must  take  up  into  himself, 
if  he  really  exist  as  a  rational  being.  A  person  must 
participate  in  his  own  nation,  age,  race ;  must  absorb  in- 
stitutions and  be  their  life-giving  principle.  But  stript  of 
all  these  things,  what  a  poor  forked  animal  he  becomes  — 
quite  like  the  naked  Lear.  Robinson  Crusoe  on  the  is- 
land is  the  man  without  his  world,  without  any  filling  to 
existence. 

But  it  was  pleasant  to  hear  the  mother  tongue  again, 
off  here  on  another  planet,  gushing  forth  in  spontaneous 
utterance  ;  pleasant  too  it  was  to  respond  once  more  in  un- 
trammeled  speech,  in  words  which  travel  to  the  soul  direct 
and  not  by  way  of  the  head.  Nor  can  I  refuse  to  record 
another  pleasure :  it  was  the  compliment  which  she  felt 
herself  obliged  to  pay  me :  ' '  You  speak  English  rather 
well  for  an  Ainerican."  This  with  a  truly  English  mix- 
ture of  simplicity,  prejudice  and  condescension.  Sym- 
pathy, however,  could  not  be  withheld ;  uncomplainingly 
she  spoke  of  her  lot,  still  she  showed  that  she  was  Rob- 
inson Crusoe,  divorced  from  country,  social  life,  and,  it 
was  easy  to  see,  from  fashion.  Steam  and  English,  twin 
world  conquerors,  thus  I  met  upon  Parnassus  on  their 
victorious  way  round  the  globe ;  they  had  indeed  stra}Ted 
far  to  one  side. 


336  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

Also  in  that  same  mill  I  found,  more  strangely  yet,  an 
American  acquaintance  —  whom  do  you  think?  None 
other  than  our  friend  from  Pennsylvania  —  Petroleum, 
in  full  blaze  in  Arachoba.  This  liquid  has  traversed  the 
ocean  and  is  now  illuminating  all  Europe,  possibly  will 
set  it  on  fire.  Well  soaked  with  Democratic  America's 
Petroleum,  Europe  will  burn,  if  it  be  not  burning  already 
in  places,  from  that  cause.  Wonderful  liquid,  a  Lucifer 
or  light-bearer,  yet  a  demon  too,  like  the  old  Son  of  the 
Morning!  Far  more  wonderful  is  its  stream  than  the 
fabled  fount  of  Arethusa,  having  crossed  the  ocean  back- 
wards and  risen  to  the  surface  in  old  Greece,  once  the 
source  itself,  here  on  the  very  slope  of  Parnassus.  This 
same  oil-mill,  where  they  make  oil  from  the  old-world 
olives  is  illuminated  with  the  new-world  flame ;  for  the 
sake  of  economy,  they  say,  and  better  light.  The  ped- 
dler, too,  can  be  seen  with  cup  and  tin  can  going  through 
the  alleys  of  every  Greek  village,  crying  out  in  a  long 
drawl :  ' '  Petrayli,  Petrayli ! "  It  is  our  American  Petrole- 
um penetrating  with  his  torch  the  darkest  and  most  hid- 
den corners  of  Europe,  bearing  cheap  light  and  civiliza- 
tion. Another  view  connected  therewith :  See  that 
woman  carrying  water  from  the  spring  in  an  empty  oil 
can ;  never  has  she  known  such  a  convenience  as  a  bucket 
before.  Thus  cordially  and  somewhat  patriotically,  per- 
haps, will  one  greet  his  countryman  blazing  up  brightly  in 
the  same  mill  with  steam  and  English. 

The  schoolmaster  from  abroad  will  soon  stray  into  a 
school-house  to  catch  some  glimpses  of  that  other  kind  of 
light  raying  out  thence  and  illuminating  the  village.  In 
this  substantial  building  is  the  school  of  Kontos,  my 
sympathetic  fellow-craftsman  in  Arachoba,  and  in  every 
way  a  worthy  man.  It  is  the  primary  school ;  about  one 
hundred  and  fifty  Greek  boys  are  here  working  away 
at  the  rudiments  of  the  Eternal  Language,  quite  the 
same  as  spoken  in  these  mountains  three  thousand  years 
ago.  Indeed  some  dialectical  turns  have  already  caught 
my  ear  which  can  be  found  only  in  Homer ;  thus 
phases  of  the  old  primitive  dialect,  one  begins  to  imagine, 
have  been  preserved  here  from  the  earliest  ages.  But 


THE  NEW  LIFE   OF  OLD  PARNASSUS.         337 

these  Greek  boys,  mark  them :  some  are  full  blonds  with 
blue  eyes,  others  have  dark-brown  though  fresh  features 
with  black  hair,  the  most  tending  to  the  lighter  complex- 
ion. Thus  the  yellow-haired  urchin,  zanthos  Menelaos,  is 
still  here,  radiant,  to  the  surprise  of  the  traveler,  who 
finds  such  emphatic  confirmation  of  the  old  poet.  The 
little  fellows  are  ranged  in  a  long  row  against  the  wall ;  I 
take  out  pencil  and  note-book  and  try  to  note  down  for 
once  statistics  of  the  light  and  dark  complexions.  But  it 
is  to  no  purpose,  these  delicate  shadings  refuse  to  be  ex- 
pressed in  figures ;  Nature  scorns  numbers,  and  I  quit, 
throwing  down  my  mathematical  tables  on  the  floor  of  the 
Parnassian  school-house. 

Beside  this  primary  school  there  was  one  for  more  ad- 
vanced pupils,  called  the  Hellenic  school,  taught  by  my 
friend  Loukas,  student  of  the  University  of  Athens.  One 
passes  through  a  narrow  porch,  comes  to  a  room  fitted  up 
with  benches,  a  little  dark,  with  low  ceiling.  A  tempor- 
ary arrangement,  I  am  told ;  but  there  is  plenty  of  youth- 
ful ardor  inside.  About  thirty  Greek  boys  are  here 
reading  Xenophon  and  Lucian,  translating  from  the  an- 
cient into  the  modern  dialect,  committing  fragments  of 
the  Kyropaideia  to  memory.  With  these  heathen  authors 
is  coupled  the  Old  Testament  in  its  historical  portions  ; 
Greek  and  Hebrew  culture  appeared  together  at  times  in 
a  soul-harrowing  mixture.  There  was  the  striving  of 
Abraham,  with  his  struggles  and  his  sacrifice,  with  his  un- 
finished and  unfinishable  condition  ;  then  came  that  clear, 
calm,  harmonious  development  of  soul  and  body  in  the 
famous  Education  of  Cyrus,  in  which  the  citizen  self-un- 
folded and  self-contained,  is  formed  to  be  a  member  of  a 
free  commonwealth,  learns  both  to  command  and  to  obey, 
to  rule  and  to  be  ruled,  in  fine  to  live  beautifully  and 
truly  in  an  institutional,  secular  life,  and  not  in  a  divinely 
capricious  Theocracy.  Both  types  belong  to  the  history 
of  our  race  and  must  be  taken  up  into  our  culture,  neither 
Greek  nor  Hebrew  can  be  left  out  by  us  without  one- 
sidedness  ;  but  on  the  slope  of  Parnassus  there,  nearest 
the  top,  what  a  dissonance  they  made  in  that  Hellenic 
school ! 

22 


338  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

As  one  looks  into  the  bright  faces,  and  casts  his  glances 
down  the  folds  of  their  little  fustanellas  to  the  bare  feet 
slipping  freely  up  and  down  in  the  low  sandals,  one  asks 
naturally  which  is  the  Socrates  among  them,  and  attempts 
to  pick  him  out.  Here  I  am  certain  is  a  young  Aristo- 
phanes, for  he  is  trying  already  to  mock  the  manner  and 
attitude  of  the  stranger,  simply  for  his  own  innate  enter- 
tainment. 

Such  were  the  two  schools  and  the  two  schoolmasters, 
whose  acquaintance,  once  formed,  will  not  be  neglected. 
In  the  afternoon,  I  usually  went  to  school  myself,  to  the 
Hellenic  school.  There  at  a  given  hour  was  the  lesson  in 
the  Education  of  Cyrus,  always  repeated  from  memory  by 
the  Greek  boys  in  the  original,  and  then  turned  into  the 
vernacular.  Thus  they  are  trained  to  old  Attic  Greek  and 
its  forms,  as  well  as  permeated  with  ideas  of  ancient  edu- 
cation. From  such  training  comes  the  present  tendency, 
so  strong  and  rapid,  of  assimilating  modern  to  old  Greek ; 
sometimes  one  will  hear  it  predicted  that  Attic  Greek  will 
be  fully  restored  in  another  generation.  I  too  went  for 
the  purpose  of  being  assimilated  as  much  as  possible ; 
great  was  the  pleasure  of  hearing  antique  Hellenic  speech 
gushing  forth  from  the  lips  of  those  school-boys  as  a  vital 
thing,  free  from  the  rigid  fetters  of  the  dry  formal  peda- 
gogue ;  many  a  vivid  hint  would  come  flashing  down  from 
antiquity  like  a  sudden  streak  of  lightning  through  dark 
skies. 

Sometimes  on  pleasant  days  I  would  not  find  them  at 
the  school-house,  but  the  neighbor's  wife  would  tell  me 
that  the  whole  school  had  adjourned  to  the  fields.  Out 
I  go  in  pursuit,  following  the  direction  indicated,  come 
to  a  little  knoll  outside  of  town,  which  overlooks  the 
Delphic  vale  in  front,  while  to  the  rear  of  it  rises  Parnas- 
sus, snow-peaked  and  dazzling.  There  sits  Loukas,  the 
schoolmaster,  on  a  stone  in  the  midst  of  his  pupils  who 
cower  around  on  the  grass.  He  takes  his  book,  it  is  old 
Lucian,  and  a  choice  morsel  is  read.  Near  by  skips  a 
brook  down  the  mountain  with  music  attuned  to  the  old 
Greek  speech  mingled  now  with  its  sounds  ;  far  above  is 
a  herd  hanging  white  on  a  precipice  and  calmly  browsing ; 


THE  NEW  LIFE   OF  OLD  PAENASSUS.         339 

just  across  one  can  overlook  the  top  of  Kirphis  with  its 
•waterless  hamlet,  down  the  vale  for  many  miles  the  olive 
tree-tops  wave  and  dance  and  sparkle  in  the  sun ;  thence 
too  a  song  can  be  faintly  heard,  song  of  the  maidens  pick- 
ing the  olives,  and  at  the  same  time  uttering  notes  in 
sweetest  concord  with  their  work,  with  the  trees  around 
them,  and  with  the  skies  overhead. 

Thus  the  sojourner  will  spend  delightful  days  at  Ara- 
choba,  never  failing  of  buoyant  occupation.  In  the 
morning  early  he  will  hurry  to  the  outskirts  of  the  village 
and  look  at  the  people  streaming  down  to  the  Olives  — 
men,  women,  and  groups  of  red-cheeked,  white-gowned 
maidens.  Into  faces  he  will  peer,  not  immodestly,  but 
with  friendly  curiosity ;  he  will  be  rewarded  by  beholding 
many  a  visage  hinting  of  some  vague  ideal  of  which,  per- 
chance, he  may  have  been  in  pursuit.  He  will  watch  the 
twin  colors  of  the  dress  winding  through  distant  by-paths 
all  over  the  mountain  side  till  they  vanish  amid  the  green 
foliage  of  the  olive  orchards.  In  merry  squads  they 
pass,  sometimes  singing ;  labor  has  the  appearance  of  a 
holiday. 

After  going  home  and  taking  a  frugal  lunch  of  bread 
and  wine,  he  begins  a  stroll  through  the  Olives,  which 
will  extend  for  miles  over  the  folds  of  the  slope  down  to 
the  Pleistus,  stream  of  silvery  flow  amid  the  trees.  On 
its  bank  he  will  lie  down  and  rest  before  beginning  the 
ascent  in  return.  Every  day  he  will  find  some  fresh  re- 
ward in  his  stroll  —  a  new  brook,  a  new  landscape,  a  new 
acquaintance,  with  a  little  adventure,  perchance.  He 
will  stop  under  the  trees,  where  the  people  are  picking 
the  dark  fruit  from  the  ground ;  will  himself  help  them 
pick  for  a  while,  particularly  if  he  sees  in  the  fair  young 
face  there  before  him  glimmers  of  some  antique  vision. 

Look  far  up  the  mountain  to  the  vineyards ;  there 
a  man  in  fustanella  is  working  among  the  sun- 
beams ;  though  he  be  only  grubbing,  the  white  folds, 
together  with  the  total  figure,  have  some  harmonious 
rhythm  which  thrills  the  eye  to  this  distance.  Like  an 
ancient  statue  endowed  with  life,  it  moves  there,  shed- 
ding a  secret  delight  over  the  wavy  hill-side.  I  dare  not 


340  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

tell  you  how  ray  heart  beats  when  I  behold  that  shape. 
It  has  something  more  than  Art ;  it  has  the  spontaneity 
of  Nature,  and  one  feels  transformed  into  its  sunny  se- 
renity at  a  look.  These  shapes  have  the  power  of  dis- 
pelling all  anxiety  from  the  breast,  of  banishing  all  dark 
broodings  of  the  soul ;  I  cease  to  worry  about  my  long 
delay  at  Arachoba,  here  I  know  is  the  spot,  where  of  all 
the  broad  earth  I  belong  at  present.  One  can  feel  the 
change  going  on  within,  like  Dawn  pursuing  Darkness 
over  the  sea.  Thjus  I  return  home  with  bright  images, 
to  keep,  I  hope,  forever. 

But  as  you  go  toward  the  village  in  the  evening,  you 
will  behold  the  young  shepherdess  reclining  on  a  rock, 
with  a  crook  in  her  hand,  clad  in  the  white  and  red  gar- 
ment, resting  there  in  the  golden  haze  of  the  setting  sun. 
With  the  most  exquisite  grace  she  leans  against  a  brown- 
lichened  rock,  amid  her  snow-fleeced  flock  grazing  on  the 
slope  ;  you  will  be  astonished  to  find  how  sensitive  your 
eye  is  growing  toward  color  and  form  in  this  atmosphere. 
At  some  distance  let  her  remain  from  you,  for  distance, 
by  enlarging  her  surroundings,  gives  more  material  of 
Nature  to  the  vision,  and  furnishes  a  deeper  harmony  ; 
you  will  note  how  that  she  is  truly  the  center  of  the  whole 
landscape,  how  that  Nature  simply  culminates  in  her  form 
reclining  there  against  the  rock,  culminates  by  a  certain 
gentle  gradation  from  mountain,  sunshine,  herds,  to  the 
central  human  figure,  how  that  she,  in  costume,  attitude 
and  movement  has  found  the  key-note  of  this  Nature,  and 
sums  up  harmoniously  in  herself  all  that  is  around  her. 

But  she  rises  from  the  rock  and  begins  to  call  to  some 
one  on  the  distant  slope ;  what  a  trumpet  in  that  voice ! 
Buoyantly  it  rides  over  the  vale  and  strikes  the  opposite 
mountain  side;  voice  not  shrill  or  loud,  but  far-echoing, 
like  the  Homeric  herald's  voice  marshalling  the  hosts,  or 
summoning  the  heroes.  She  shot  the  word  from  her 
mouth  like  an  arrow ;  over  the  mountain  it  flew  easily, 
one  can  hear  it  still  whizzing  past  the  summits  or  wander- 
ing among  the  distant  peaks. 

These  Parnassian  women  are  most  obstinate  workers  — 
more  industrious  and  skillful,  it  would  seem,  than  the 


THE  NEW  LIFE   OF  OLD  PARNASSUS.         341 

men.  They  pick  the  olives,  grub  the  vineyards,  attend 
to  the  children,  and  acquire  a  variety  of  household  in- 
dustries, such  as  weaving,  dyeing,  carpet-making.  You 
will  often  meet  the  woman  driving  the  donkey  with  its 
load  of  wine  or  olives,  yet  at  the  same  time  busily  spin- 
ning with  her  distaff.  In  the  rain  I  met  her  the  other 
day  with  her  charge,  winding  through  the  stony  paths 
toward  the  town ;  still  during  that  steep  ascent,  she  kept 
plodding  behind  the  donkey  and  twirling  her  distaff  in 
the  rain.  The  Parnassian  woman,  in  my  judgment,  is 
physically  as  strong  as  the  man,  if  not  stronger,  and 
from  several  cases  that  came  under  my  observation  pos.- 
sesses  the  ability  to  handle  him,  in  case  of  necessity. 
Some  fathers,  I  have  been  told,  train  their  daughters  to 
the  use  of  the  gun.  They  hunt  the  wolf  now,  but  will 
fight  the  Turk,  if  they  can  only  get  a  distant  opportunity. 

As  you  pass  by  the  fountain  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
village,  the  washers  you  will  see,  for  they  are  seldom 
absent.  Life  seems  an  eternal  wash-day,  always  striving 
to  get  something  clean  and  white,  often  with  terrific 
struggles,  muscular  and  otherwise.  Every  fountain  in 
'Arachoba  has  these  living  nymph-like  ornaments  scattered 
along  its  banks  or  standing  often  right  in  the  middle  of 
the  cold  stream,  with  their  ancient  sculpturesque  cos- 
tumes, startling  to  the  Anglo-Saxon  eye,  which  has  been 
trained  so  carefully  to  all  concealment  of  form,  which 
connects  nudity  and  sin,  and  considers  drapery  to  be 
virtue.  Even  after  one  has  has  got  used  to  the  stript 
marble  in  the  galleries  of  Europe,  this  real  nudity  of  the 
washers  is  striking,  abashing  at  first.  You  have  to  go 
past  them,  for  the  road  leads  by  the  spring,  otherwise 
you  would  hardly  dare  look  that  way  out  of  respect  for  pri- 
vacy. But  you  will  find  nought  but  innocence,  innocence 
like  that  of  Eve  in  Paradise,  shame  has  not  yet  fully  risen 
into  consciousness ;  and  you  yourself  begin  to  change 
within,  to  be  transformed  into  that  state  of  primitive  in- 
nocence which  is  still  the  characteristic  of  the  Parnassian 
world. 

Often  you  will  straggle  into  the  wine-shop,  the  social 
center  of  the  town ;  there  the  citizens  gather  to  gossip  a 


342  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

little  and  talk  politics.  All  your  male  acquaintances  you 
are  sure  to  meet  in  that  attractive  place,  and  it  is  not  too 
much  to  say  that  every  man,  woman  and  child  in  Ara- 
choba  knows  you  by  this  time.  When  you  stroll  for 
miles  over  the  mountain,  you  are  astonished  to  find  that 
the  lone  shepherd  there  is  aware  who  you  are  ;  he  saw  you 
on  a  certain  evening  in  the  wine-shop,  and  heard  your 
story  about  that  strange  country  of  yours,  where  ma- 
chines have  learned  to  talk,  where  men  go  to  bed  in  one 
city  and  wake  up  in  another  hundreds  of  miles  away. 

Conversation  will  not  fail  you,  nor  eager  listeners.  I 
recollect  one  evening  the  talk  fell  upon  the  Odyssey ; 
Loukas  was  present,  and  Kontos,  and  other  men  of  edu- 
cation. I  unfolded  the  meaning  of  that  book,  its  su- 
preme significance,  not  only  in  the  culture  of  Greece,  but 
of  the  world  ;  sought  to  reveal  the  purport  of  those  fabu- 
lous shapes,  Kirke  and  Polyphemus ;  endeavored  to  show 
forth  the  most  universal  character  yet  created  in  Litera- 
ture, Ulysses.  But  consider  the  matter!  Think  of 
my  interpreting  on  the  soil  of  Greece  to  Greeks  in  Greek 
the  greatest  Greek  work.  Beyond  this  I  cannot  go,  it  is 
the  last  act  of  audacity  toward  the  Olympians.  The 
Odyssey  is  indeed  the  book  of  the  West  —  the  struggle  of 
man  toward  the  West  —  the  book  of  enterprise,  of  man's 
mastery  over  the  forces  of  the  natural  world,  the  pro- 
phecy, too,  of  his  final  intellectual  triumph  and  repose  — 
the  prophecy  of  the  Western  world. 

Again,  one  evening  not  long  before  my  departure,  they 
asked  me  what  I  was  going  to  write  about  them,  for 
they  were  never  free  of  the  suspicion  that  I  intended 
a  book.  I  replied :  I  propose  to  say  four  things  about 
you  with  emphasis. 

1st.  That  I  found  no  brigandage  in  my  journey, 
though  I  was  afoot  and  alone.  I  have  met  men  every- 
where —  along  the  road,  in  the  fields,  amid  the-  solitary 
recesses  of  mountains ;  they  could  have  made  away  with 
me  and  left  no  trace,  yet  I  have  never  been  molested,  in- 
deed have  been  treated  only  with  kindness.  Nor  have  I 
found  anywhere  the  least  public  sentiment  sustaining  dis- 
order or  brigandage.  I  should  say  that  a  person  is  quite 


THE  NEW  LIFE   OF  OLD  PARNASSUS.         343 

as  secure  here  as  in  any  other  country  on  the  globe ;  cer- 
tainly there  is  not  more  danger  in  Greece  to  the  honest 
pedestrian  than  in  America,  with  its  swarms  of  reckless 
tramps. 

2nd.  I  shall  seek  to  do  justice  to  the  ideal  striving 
which  I  still  find  in  your  people.  Aspiration  you  have, 
and  a  desire  for  improvement,  though  one  may  sometimes 
notice  a  lack  of  steady  will ;  your  ideal  is  not  dead,  above 
all,  your  political  ideal ;  for  I  find  you  as  keen  theorizers 
on  government  as  your  ancestors.  Nor  has  your  character 
for  dishonesty  and  sharp  practice  been  justified  by  my 
experience,  at  least  here  in  the  country.  The  truth  is, 
the  Greeks  have  obtained  their  bad  name  from  the  super- 
ficial tourist  who,  being  cheated  by  a  hackman  of  Corfu 
or  Athens,  has  at  once  proclaimed  that  all  the  Greeks  are 
hackmen  in  character.  Hackmen  are,  indeed,  quite  the 
same  over  the  whole  world. 

3rd.  For  the  study  of  antiquity  Greece  furnishes  the 
best  opportunity,  better  to  my  thinking  than  Rome. 
Here  are  still  the  two  most  perfect  and  significant  remains 
of  the  old  Greek  ^  world :  the  Greek  language  and  Greek 
customs.  Both  are  alive  and  in  activity  at  this  moment 
on  Parnassus.  The  dry  grammar  and  lexicon  become  at 
once  a  living  source  of  speech  and  manners.  Besides 
these  one  will  find  many  remains  —  ruins  of  temples,  walls, 
tombs  ;  all  of  which  have  their  true  significance  only  when 
seen  in  their  localities. 

4th.  There  is  still  this  Nature,  quite  the  same  as  in  an- 
tiquity, which  hints  at  present  of  all  that  ever  grew  up 
here ;  it  is  the  royal  setting  in  which  the  past  is  to  be 
placed  with  its  splendid  memories.  Here  you  can  behold 
the  true  background  of  the  old  picture,  that  which  always 
suggests  it  and  is  in  secret  harmony  with  it ;  Greece  to 
day  will  thus  complete  and  vivify  the  images  of  memory. 
Delphi  and  its  character  begin  to  be  explicable  when  one 
sees  this  valley  and  listens  to  the  whisperings  of  this 
Nature  —  of  the  mountain,  the  glen,  the  sea  with  blue 
eye  peering  through  some  opening  between  the  cliffs. 

Arachoba  may  be  truly  called  the  modern  center  of  an- 
cient Hellenism.  The  Hellenic  customs  and  language  are 


344  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

still  here,  the  Hellenic  landscape  is  seen  on  this  spot  in 
all  its  concentration;  Europe  has  scarcely  invaded  the 
place.  One  saunters  up  and  down  the  lanes,  to  the 
market-place,  into  houses,  and  may  still  think  himself  in 
classic  times.  He  must  take  every  opportunity  of  seeing 
the  customs  —  the  betrothal,  the  marriage,  the  festival, 
chorus,  music.  In  proportion  as  he  sinks  himself  into  the 
spirit  of  these,  will  his  visit  be  profitable  and  happy.  He 
must  wait,  receive  things  as  they  come ;  this  Greek  life 
cannot  be  snatched  up  in  a  day  and  carried  off  in  a  note- 
book ;  it  must  be  lived;  sympathized  with,  enjoyed. 
Every  day  one  will  pick  up  some  new  thing,  which  fills 
out  the  image  of  the  old  and  sinks  deep  into  the  emotions. 

There  are  no  ancient  ruins  at  Arachoba ;  what  stood 
here  in  antiquity  is  hard  to  determine,  probably  nothing 
of  consequence.  Local  antiquarians  speak  of  the  founda- 
tions of  a  temple  near  the  spring  just  outside  of  town,  but 
I  could  never  find  them.  Some  outpost  of  Delphi  this  spot 
was,  a  little  more  than  four  miles  from  that  sacred  city. 
This  is,  then,  a  modern  town  where  old  Hellenic  life  has 
throbbed  up  in  fresh  energy,  apart  from  its  ruins,  freed 
from  its  withered  limbs,  from  decayed  walls  and  temples. 
An  idyllic  green  spot,  the  best  introduction  to  old  Greek 
life  —  such  is  the  impression  which  these  few  days  will 
leave ;  then  grows  the  intense  desire  to  proceed  to  the 
ancient  town  with  its  beautiful  fragment  of  a  vanished 
world.  Arachoba  is,  you  may  say,  an  invitation  to 
antiquity,  to  Delphi ;  it  is  the  modern  initiatory  station 
from  which  you  pass,  when  duly  prepared,  to  the  antique 
holy  place,  by  a  road  bordered  with  flowers,  the  newest 
yet  the  oldest. 

This  freshness  the  town  has  for  me,  the  freshness  of  a 
mythical,  pre-civilized  time  which  lies  back  of  Hellenic 
life  as  we  know  it  from  books.  A  breathing  soul  it  puts 
into  what  seemed  long  since  dead ;  a  soul  into  whose  eye 
you  can  look  deep,  whose  words  you  can  hear  in  sponta- 
neous utterance ;  a  young  new  soul,  though  so  old.  It 
is  indeed  strange ;  the  Greek  infant  which  grew  to  man- 
hood thousands  of  years  ago,  is  still  here  and  an  infant ; 
pick  it  up,  clasp  it  to  your  heart,  listen  to  its  babblings 


THE  NEW  LIFE   OF  OLD  PARNASSUS.         345 

for  the  sake  of  that  which  it  is  to  become.  The  child  is 
father  to  the  man ;  its  instinctive  prattle  often  reveals 
clearest  living  fountains  which  later  in  life  are  pro- 
foundly hidden  from  the  most  piercing  glance ;  in  like 
manner  this  modern  town  makes  old  Hellas  live  anew  with 
a  childlike  openness  and  freshness. 

Much  indeed  remains  to  be  seen  and  studied  in  Ara- 
choba ;  I  ought  to  stay  till  this  scenery,  these  customs, 
this  life  sinks  deep  within  me ;  but  I  am  impatient  to 
reach  the  goal  of  my  journey.  I  would  tarry  here  long, 
but  the  finger  is  always  pointing  down  the  road  toward 
Delphi ;  thither  let  us  now  pass  with  a  leisurely  walk, 
for  there  is  plenty  of  time  and  much  to  be  noted. 
Flinging  his  mantle  over  his  shoulder,  and  grasping  staff 
and  knapsack,  the  eager  pedestrian  begins  his  tramp  once 
more. 

Even  the  Greeks  of  the  mountains  are  surprised  at  my 
persistent  journeying  afoot.  The  peasant  meets  me  and 
looks  at  me,  saying:  "  Why  don't  you  take  an  animal?  " 
Particularly,  if  he  have  such  an  animal  to  hire.  "  Why 
don't  you  ride  like  a  gentleman?"  The  true  answer 
can  only  be :  O  I  am  no  gentleman,  but  one  who  knows 
how  to  walk  as  well  as  a  mule.  Whereat  he  wonders, 
noting  the  Prankish  garments.  The  Greek  gentleman 
rides,  and  has  usually  an  attendant  on  foot  who  follows 
just  behind  the  mule  for  the  purpose  of  goading  it  into  a 
walk,  always  a  difficult,  sometimes.an  impossible  task. 

But  the  delights  of  freedom  and  the  pure  pleasure  of 
going  afoot,  are  not  to  be  bartered  for  a  ride  over  stony 
pathways.  The  pedestrian,  though  solitary,  turns  aside 
and  explores,  loiters  by  the  margin  of  a  brook,  sits 
down  on  a  stone,  from  which  he  watches  the  flying 
clouds,  or  looks  to  his  heart's  content  at  a  group  of 
maidens,  in  red  and  white,  half  way  up  the  mountain. 
The  walk  is  no  effort  in  this  exhilarating  atmosphere, 
or  it  is  an  effort  which  is  made  with  such  supreme  ease 
that  motion  is  a  delight,  a  relief  of  the  imprisoned  energy. 
The  body  seems  to  rejoice  in  its  own  spontaneous  flight, 
for  it  becomes  now  a  pure  reminiscence  of  the  time  when 
it  wag  wiusred. 


346  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

Thus  we  start  for  Delphi,  seat  of  Apollo  and  the  Muses, 
ancient  well-head  of  prophecy  and  poesy.  Can  it  be 
possible  that  we  are  so  near  that  sacred  spot,  distant 
hardly  more  than  an  hour's  sharp  walk?  One  may  well 
have  some  presentiment  that  it  is  not  so  near  as  it  seems. 
The  host  takes  me  to  the  outside  of  the  town  and  puts  me 
into  the  road  leading  thither  with  a  slight  descent,  along 
the  side  of  the  mountain.  Above  lies  Parnassus,  appar- 
ently not  far ;  why  not  include  it  in  the  journey? 

The  heights  are,  indeed,  enticing,  as  they  lie  dreaming 
in  calm  sunshine ;  there  is,  too,  more  than  half  the  day 
remaining  for  the  trip  ;  accordingly  the  resolution  is  taken 
to  go  up  to  yonder  first  summit  and  see  what  may  be  re- 
vealed on  Parnassus.  Thence  one  may  slowly  coast  along 
the  ridge  till  he  approach  Delphi,  when  he  can  descend 
and  enter  the  town.  What  are  the  difficulties,  what  are 
the  precipices  cutting  off  the  way,  what  is  the  significance 
of  leaving  the  straight  path  for  the  crooked  one,  are 
questions  not  pondered  by  the  pilgrim  now  going  to  the 
shrine  of  the  God  of  Light  and  Wisdom. 

Without  delay  I  diverge  from  the  Delphic  road,  and 
follow  a  pleasant  path  which  leads  up  through  the  vine- 
yards. The  vine-stocks  are  very  small  and  low;  the 
stony  soil  gives  them  its  delicate  nourishment  in  little 
drops,  whereof  comes  the  excellent  wine  of  Arachoba. 
Then  all  cultivation  ceases  till  the  crest  is  reached.  Here 
now  I  stand  on  the  eaves  of  this  immense  mountain  tem- 
ple, intending  to  run  around  on  the  edge,  imagining 
that  I  can  get  down  on  any  side  just  as  easily  as  I  have 
come  up  at  this  point. 

The  view  over  the  valley  becomes  more  delightful,  the 
air  is  more  bracing,  the  world  more  conquerable ;  with 
new  buoyancy  one  springs  over  the  rocks  along  the 
mountain's  eaves,  looking  down  upon  the  earth  below 
triumphantly.  The  sun  is  out  to-day,  and  may  now  be 
called  the  shepherd  of  the  sky,  driving  his  fleecy  sheep 
in  scattered  groups  around  the  heavens,  striking  them 
once  in  a  while  with  his  golden  rod.  Then  they  flee, 
touched  with  his  splendor ;  on  a  level  with  the  eye  they 
move  up  the  Delphic  valley  smit  with  his  sheen,  while 


THE  NEW  LIFE   OF  OLD  PARNASSUS.         347 

their  shadows  below  race  across  the  tops  of  the  Olives  or 
scramble  up  the  steep  sides  of  the  opposite  mountain. 

Let  us  next  pass  over  the  crest  and  behold  what  is 
there.  A  new  plain  comes  to  view,  a  tableland  slightly 
hollowed  out  like  a  shallow  saucer,  from  which  new 
mountains  rise  higher  than  ever.  One  of  these  mountains 
heaving  itself  upwards  with  enormous  snow-drifts  on  its 
sides  and  with  defiant  pines  thrusting  their  green  heads 
through  the  deep  white  cover  is  Liacuri,  highest  peak  of 
Parnassus,  whose  glancing  summit  has  so  long  been  beck- 
oning us  on  the  way  to  Delphi :  now  that  summit  becomes 
a  point  of  intensely  glistening  crystal  in  the  sun's  glare. 
Ah,  no;  it  is  quite  impossible  to  go  up  there  to-day,  or 
to-morrow,  or  the  next  day;  often  have  I  been  warned 
against  those  smiling  snow-drifts,  not  a  guide  can  be 
found  in  Arachoba  who  would  now  intrust  himself  to  their 
treacherous  surface.  So  let  us  still  skirt  the  crest  around 
toward  Delphi. 

It  is  rough  walking ;  there  are  no  paths  here  except 
those  made  by  goats,  running  in  every  direction ;  the 
pointed  rocks  turn  their  sharp  ends  toward  you,  till  the 
whole  earth  seems  a  fretful  porcupine  with  stony  quills 
bristling  outward.  From  point  to  point  the  traveler 
leaps  with  winged  joy  in  his  heart  perchance,  but  with 
rapid  loss  of  sole  leather.  The  low  thick  brambles  thrust 
themselves  across  his  path  defiantly  and  must  often  be 
pushed  through  by  main  force ;  sometimes  they  pluck  from 
his  garments  mementos  of  his  visit. 

This  table-land  has  quite  a  mysterious  look,  as  if  it 
knew  some  life  all  its  own,  quite  distinct  from  the  rest  of 
the  world.  Yonder  is  a  rich  soil,  and  it  is  cultivated ; 
the  green  crop  is  springing  up  in  long  rows ;  there  is,  too, 
a  village  of  empty  cabins,  which  has  a  sort  of  weird  tran- 
quility  about  it:  not  a  soul  lives  there,  yet  we  see  every 
sign  of  habitation  and  employment.  Though  there  be  no 
human  dwellers  visible,  something  inhabits  the  spot  and 
is  now  subtly  active  —  if  not  human,  then  divine;  rural 
divinities,  half  way  between  the  seen  and  unseen,  dance 
through  the  sunbeams  a  moment,  then  vanish. 

Kalyvia  or  the  Huts  is  the  name  of  the  place ;  the  Ara- 


348  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS, 

chobites  come  hither  in  summer,  and  lodge  just  under  the 
snows  of  Parnassus,  till  the  hot  season  has  passed.  Merry 
times  are  then  said  to  be  on  the  table-land  of  Parnassus. 
In  the  winter,  as  at  present,  nobody  remains,  not  even 
the  agriculturist  who  attends  to  the  crop.  In  the  middle 
of  the  table-land  is  a  quiet  lake,  reflecting  mountains ; 
into  the  lake  flows  a  good-sized  stream,  but  where  is  the 
outlet?  Not  visible,  wrapped  in  mystery;  meanwhile 
there  continues  the  silent  whisper  of  spirits  who  people 
this  high  lonely  spot  abandoned  to  sunshine  and  solitude. 

But  it  is  time  to  begin  the  descent  into  the  Delphic 
way  below ;  for  quite  a  distance  I  have  been  skirting  the 
crest,  running  along  the  stony  eaves  of  the  mountain 
temple ;  let  us,  then,  seek  to  come  below  again.  A  slant 
in  the  cliff  offers  an  opportunity ;  about  half  way  down 
that  steep  slant  I  pass  when  a  precipice  of  many  fathoms, 
previously  invisible,  opens  suddenly  at  my  feet  and  cuts 
off  the  next  step.  I  look  beneath,  eagles  are  circling  be- 
low and  around  me,  often  hovering  near  as  if  impatiently 
waiting  for  my  body.  Will  they  get  it?  1  lookup ;  then 
turning  about  I  catch  hold  vigorously  of  a  bramble  and 
lift  myself  from  that  edge.  This  is  not  the  way  to  Delphi, 
the  shrine  of  the  God  is  not  to  be  reached  thus.  Back 
then ;  these  steps  from  stone  to  stone  must  all  be  retraced, 
up-hill  now.  Thus  I  grapple  and  climb  with  painful 
respiration  toward  the  crest  again  ;  far  more  difficult  is 
the  ascent  than  the  descent  of  Averuus,  as  the  poet  re- 
marks. With  the  aid  of  staff  and  of  friendly  bushes 
everywhere  extending  their  helpful  arms,  I  reached  once 
more  the  ridge  after  an  hour's  desperate  struggle,  while 
the  fierce  Sun  from  above  smote  me  with  burning 
torches,  and  the  sharp  jagged  rock  blistered  the  bottom 
of  the  foot  through  the  shoe-soles,  now  worn  very  thin. 

Still,  when  one  arrives  at  the  comb  and  overlooks  the 
scene  after  taking  a  good  rest,  he  is  unwilling  to  go  all 
the  way  back  to  Arachoba  simply  in  order  to  descend  this 
hill.  Hence  he  still  goes  on,  painfully  seeking  for  a  place 
where  he  can  get  down,  no  longer  so  buoyantly  leaping 
over  the  rocks  which  seem  to  be  getting  more  spiteful  and 
jagged  than  ever.  At  last  a  glance  beyond  the  precipice 


THE  NEW  LIFE  OF  OLD  PARNASSUS.         349 

reveals  Delphi,  whose  houses  lie  in  sweet  repose  along  the 
slope  ;  but?  it  cannot  be  reached  from  this  point.  Here  I 
stand  on  the  cliff  of  Phloumbouki,  ancient  Hyampeia, 
from  which  the  robbers  of  the  temple  were  thrown  down 
in  olden  times :  such,  I  pray,  is  not  to  be  my  fate  at  the 
hands  of  the  wrathful  God  —  for  that  he  is  angry,  is 
pretty  evident  from  this  day's  experiences.  The  little 
village  sits  full  of  placid  joy  in  the  declining  sun,  but  I 
cannot  enter  there,  can  only  get  a  glimpse  of  it  from  afar. 
Still  even  the  sight  of  it  inspires  fresh  courage,  and  fills 
the  soul  with  new  dreams  of  hope.  It  must  be  reached 
to-day,  if  possible. 

Let  us  then  pass  on,  and  see  whether  we  can  not  in 
some  way  get  down  the  cliff  without  having  to  go  back. 
But  here  an  immense  gorge  coming  down  from  Parnassus 
cuts  the  comb  in  two,  as  if  a  straight  slice  had  been  taken 
out  of  the  mountain.  No  longer  can  we  skirt  the  brow  as 
heretofore,  turn  back  we  must  perforce,  or  coast  along 
the  edge  of  this  new  chasm.  It  is  clear  that  the  present 
gorge  comes  out  near  Delphi ;  possibly  through  it  we 
may  pass  thither ;  such  is  the  new  plan  that  rises  in  the 
bosom  with  some  uncertain  flutterings  of  hope. 

But  what  a  spot!  Desolation  reigns  on  this  cliff, 
nought  which  hints  of  such  a  being  as  man  can  be  seen, 
nought  which  tells  of  his  destiny,  though  Delphi  be  just 
behind  the  hill.  A  few  goat-paths  you  notice,  going 
everywhither  and  nowhither,  truly  capricious  things,  which 
give  no  help  to  the  seeker  for  the  path  which  leads  to  the 
Delphic  goal.  Needles  of  shivered  rocks  stick  up ;  low, 
stubborn,  sp'iteful  brushwood  grasps  you  by  the  mantle. 
Such  is  the  product  of  this  waste,  not  a  flower,  not  a  flock, 
not  a  solitary  shepherd ;  only  an  eagle,  and  some  crows 
flapping  near  till  their  wings  fan  your  very  face,  seem 
waiting  to  pick  your  bones. 

What  are  now  the  thoughts  of  the  traveler  on  Parnas- 
sus, with  thick  mantle  becoming  very  heavy  in  this  sun, 
with  knapsack  irksomely  dangling  over  the  shoulders,  with 
staff  in  right  hand,  —  a  staff  of  Providence  indeed,  which 
supports  his  leaps,  lightens  his  sole-destroying  tread 
through  the  rough  rocks,  catches  him  even  when  about  to 


350  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

fall  and  helps  him  firmly  to  his  feet  again?  He  will  say, 
as  he  turns  around  to  the  declining  sun  and  wipes  his 
brow :  Let  this  be  the  end  of  traveling ;  I  shall  return 
home ;  I  wish  I  had  never  started.  Delphi  is  unattain- 
able, the  Mount  of  the  Muses  is  a  cheerless  barren  waste, 
producing  only  thorns  and  whinstone.  I  shall  put  back ; 
would  that  I  had  stayed  at  home,  where  all  was  comfort 
and  good  roads,  where  there  are  no  classic  temples  to 
reach  and  no  poetic  mountains  to  scale. 

Such  are  the  streaks  of  impiety  which  now  begin  to 
lighten  through  his  head,  without  good  reason  I  maintain. 
But  here  is  a  path  leading  down  into  the  gorge  hitherto 
inaccessible,  a  path  practicable  for  the  footman.  Again 
hope  rises  out  of  the  depths,  wreathing  herself  in  smiles ; 
the  traveler  passes  down  into  the  narrow  chasm  with  its 
two  high  perpendicular  rock-walls,  and  at  every  step 
marks  with  wonder  the  growing  twilight.  He  follows  the 
Charadra  or  bed  of  the  mountain  torrent,  now  dry  but 
filled  with  great  boulders,  washed  and  ground  to  white- 
ness by  the  descending  floods  of  the  ages.  All  the  chan- 
nel is  waterless,  but  a  beautiful  cool  spring  gushes  up,  of 
which  he  will  drink  with  reverence  to  the  Nymph  who  has 
chosen  to  appear  in  this  spot,  so  far  away  from  the  look 
of  men,  welling  forth  in  solitude,  in  unadmired  beauty, 
simply  for  the  good  of  the  lone  shepherd  or  solitary  wan- 
derer. Arctodorema  they  call  her,  as  I  afterward  learned, 
scarcely  known  to  the  inhabitants  here  ;  her  sister  Casta- 
lia  is  also  in  this  same  gorge  further  down,  just  at  its 
mouth,  but  she  is  famed  among  men  all  over  the  world. 

The  wanderer  will  sit  down  on  the  edge  an'd  pat  with  his 
hands  the  waters  which  generously  freshen  him  with  new 
vigor  and  new  hope.  He  would  like  to  remain  beside  her 
pleasant,  quiet  visage,  but  it  is  no  time  to  caress  the 
Nymph  when  in  pursuit  of  Apollo.  So  he  hopefully  con- 
tinues his  way  through  the  shadowy  gorge ;  it  is  a  very 
narrow  passage  cut  through  the  solid  mountain  of 
rock  by  the  torrent  during  these  past  million  of  years. 
High  on  each  side  rise  the  walls  in  a  straight  line  ;  a  little 
ragged  strip  of  sky  and  cloud  can  be  seen  as  one  looks 
up,  with  their  outlines  torn  to  shreds  by  the  rocky  points 


THE  NEW  LIFE   OF  OLD  PAENA8SUS.         351 

above ;  a  dim  mysterious  light,  fighting  with  shadows, 
timorously  flies  through  the  chasm.  No  sun  reaches 
hither ;  but  look  ahead  toward  the  end  through  the  tor- 
tuous channel  —  there  on  a  high  rock  a  few  sunbeams 
are  lying ;  they  encourage,  saying  that  Apollo  is  still  in 
his  abode,  that  golden  light  will  be  attained  at  the  termi- 
nation of  the  dark,  twisted  passage.  Such  is  the  sign,  fa- 
vorably interpreted  ;  onward,  then,  grapple  the  boulders, 
enormous,  shaggy-sided,  that  lie  in  the  white-glimmering 
channel ;  over  them  thou  wilt  climb  darkly  and  wonder. 

This  is  truly  a  P}rtbian  defile,  so  one  muses,  looking 
up  at  the  rock-walls  cut  by  Nature  into  a  thousand  fan- 
tastic shapes ;  this  is  the  passage  of  initiation  through 
which  the  votary  must  go  before  he  can  look  on  the  face 
of  the  God.  Through  such  dark  ways  he  must  be  mys- 
teriously led,  or  must  grope  along  by  himself  over  cha- 
otic masses;  by  these  lofty  walls  he  will  be  cut  off  from 
the  world  and  inclosed  in  the  very  heart  of  Nature,  here 
to  feel  her  secretest  throbbings,  here  to  listen  to  her  hid- 
den utterances.  Our  primeval  mother,  Earth,  was  of  old 
at  work  in  this  passage  and  still  is  ;  her  the  old  Greeks 
worshiped  at  Delphi  before  Apollo  came  with  his  illu- 
mined face  ;  one  must  still  shudder  at  her  wild  orgiastic 
rites  in  this  gorge,  as  he  struggles  through  on  his  way  to 
the  temple  of  light.  Dark  is  the  passage  and  rudely  cha- 
otic, but  ever  yonder  at  the  end  of  it  can  be  seen  some 
golden  ray  which  bids  us  hope  and  hurry  on. 

But  after  passing  down  the  gorge  quite  a  distance  and 
after  many  leaps  and  laborious  clutchings,  the  wanderer/ 
comes  to  a  steep  descent  right  across  the  bed  of  the  chan- 
nel, a  sudden  .pitch  of  twice  or  possibly  thrice  his  own 
height.  He  scans  it  closely,  this  is  manifestly  a  new 
problem ;  but  by  careful  climbing  and  one  long  spring 
he  calculates  that  he  can  get  down  the  rock  without 
much  of  a  jolt ;  then  he  will  reach  that  happy  light  now 
shining  more  golden  yonder  at  the  end  of  the  chasm. 
He  lays  down  staff  and  knapsack,  takes  off  his  mantle, 
that  burdensome  mantle  which  he  proposes  to  throw  over 
the  steep  first,  thinking  to  leap  upon  the  same  to  break 
his  fall.  Down  flies  the  mantle  and  lights  there  below  in 


352  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

the  rift ;  he  picks  up  the  staff,  about  to  fling  it  over,  too, 
when,  behold!  his  arm  is  caught,  still  upright  in  air,  and 
held,  held  by  a  God.  For  it  is  a  God  who  now  whispers 
in  his  ear  —  I  imagine  it  to  be  Pallas  Athena,  by  her  aw- 
ful-gleaming eye,  there  in  the  dark  abyss  —  and  thus 
speaks  in  words  of  sharp  rebuke :  Fool !  wilt  thou  cut 
off  thy  return?  Seest  thou  not  that  this  leap,  if  thou 
take  it,  can  never  be  undone  ?  Beware !  what  if  there  be 
another  precipice  in  the  dark  and  tortuous  channel  after 
this  one,  more  deep  and  desperate  yet,  which  thou  canst 
not  leap  down  ?  Then  to  all  eternity  thou  wilt  not  be  able 
to  reach  the  goal  where  the  sun  is  shining  yonder ;  thou 
knowest  not  what  may  lie  between  here  and  there ;  once 
down  this  rock  and  thou  canst  not  repass  it,  nor  canst 
thou  perhaps,  go  forward.  There  thou  must  remain, 
not  to  be  rescued  by  the  hand  of  man,  caught  in  the 
grip  of  destiny,  for  I  tell  thee,  these  high  rock-walls  are 
the  shears  of  the  Fates,  now  ready  to  close  upon  thee,  and 
into  them  thou  art  placing  thy  body.  Cut  not  off  thy 
return  ;  back,  then,  while  it  is  time  ;  leave  thy  mantle  to 
rot  there  in  the  chasm,  better  it  than  thou.  A  blessing 
thou  wilt  take  back ;  thou  art  rid  of  an  old  hindrance : 
more  lightly  hereafter  thou  wilt  climb  thy  way  up  the 
difficult  steep. 

At  such  admonition  the  traveler  picks  up  staff  and 
knapsack  and  turns  around,  hurrying  up  the  gorge  now 
growing  darker  than  ever  in  the  approach  of  evening. 
There  will  be  no  delay  in  his  steps,  though  he  has  hence- 
forth to  climb  upwards  —  a  more  difficult  feat  than  to  come 
down  the  channel.  But  in  his  heart  he  is  glad,  glad  that 
he  did  not  make  that  leap,  having  obeyed  the  voice  of 
the  Goddess.  He  soon  comes  to  the  sweet  nymph  Arcto- 
dorema,  more  laughing  and  delightful  than  before,  as  if 
she  too  was  filled  with  some  inner  joy  at  beholding  him 
unexpectedly  once  more.  He  leans  over  in  a  hurry  and 
kisses  her  face  fondly,  almost  tearfully,  for  it  is  not  like- 
ly that  he  will  ever  see  her  again.  Moistening  his  fin- 
gers and  brow  in  her  cool  waters,  he  admires  her  lonely 
beauty  sparkling  cheerily  there  in  the  dim  solitudes,  and 
then  turns  away. 


THE  NEW  LIFE  OF  OLD  PARNASSUS.         353 

But  look  around  once  more  through  the  chasm  behind  ; 
the  golden  sunbeams  which  were  shining  in  at  the  other 
end  have  departed,  fantastic  images  of  night  are  sporting 
there  where  the  light  rested,  while  the  sides  and  hollows 
of  the  rock-walls  begin  to  be  alive  with  strange  forms  of 
monsters.  Earth  has  let  loose  her  imprisoned  demons, 
and  they  now  flit  through  the  gorge ;  quick,  up  the  slant, 
out  of  that  rayless  chaos ;  the  entire  way  to  Arachoba 
must  be  retraced  with  speed ;  long  ago  ought  that  to  have 
been  done.  The  sun  is  setting,  soon  it  will  be  night  on 
the  top  of  Parnassus,  as  it  now  is  night  in  the  chasm. 
Still  every  step  is  made  with  joy,  as  the  word  of  the  God- 
dess comes  into  the  mind  —  word  spoken  just  as  the  leap 
was  about  to  be  made. 

But  do  you  know  that  the  wanderer  now  seems  to  move 
more  lightly,  to  be  without  something  which  previously 
weighed  him  down?  It  is  the  mantle,  the  oppressive 
mantle,  which  has  been  left  behind  in  the  dark  rift ;  the 
wSole  day  it  was  a  heavy  clog,  at  last  it  is  gotten  rid  of ; 
with  the  burden  of  its  weight  now,  the  return  to  Arachoba 
might  be  impossible.  It  has  served  its  purpose ;  let  it 
go ;  henceforth  its  possession  could  only  be  an  impedi- 
ment. It  may  also  be  added  that  the  sole  of  the  shoe  is 
worn  off,  and  the  walker  must  now  leap  from  rock  to  rock 
on  his  heels  in  order  to  spare  the  blistered  balls  of  his 
feet :  all  with  joy  however  as  he  thinks  of  what  the  God- 
dess told  him. 

Dusk  finds  him  still  toiling  over  the  pointed  stones 
and  through  the  thorny  brambles ;  no  moon  holds  a  lamp 
out  of  the  sky  to  illumine  his  way,  but  Liacura  yonder 
sends  from  her  lofty  cone  a  milk-white  snow-light,  rather 
vague  but  sufficient  to  help  him  find  the  path  down  the 
mountain.  Nor  will  he  lose  the  direction,  having  kept 
that  peak  in  his  eye  all  day.  Thus  he  gets  back  to  Ara- 
choba after  some  misgivings,  with  its  serpentine  streets  in 
Stygian  darkness.  One  light  ouly  he  beholds  in  the  town, 
thither  he  goes  and  finds  it  to  be  his  old  friend,  American 
Petroleum,  vividly  illuminating  the  oil-mill,  and  furnish- 
ing one  beacon  at  least  on  Parnassus,  A  friendly  hand 
conducts  him  thence  to  the  house  of  his  host  the  Doctor, 

23 


354  A    WALE  Itf  HELLAS. 

to  the  great  surprise  of  the  family  who  had  seen  him  set 
out  so  triumphantly  in  the  morning  for  Delphi,  but  now 
witness  him  returning  in  no  little  humiliation.  Then  he 
narrates  the  adventures  of  the  day,  and  in  proof  ex- 
hibits his  shoes  now  fit  only  to  be  suspended  in  the  tem- 
ple of  the  God  Hermes,  as  a  votive  offering,  their  work 
being  done.  . 

Thus  I  wandered  on  Parnassus,  for  this  traveler  of 
whom  I  have  been  speaking  is  myself,  whom  I  have  sought 
to  conceal,  partially  at  least,  behind  a  third  person,  out 
of  bashf  illness ;  thus  also  many  others  have  wandered 
before  me,  and  will  wander  hereafter,  since  the  mount- 
ain with  all  its  impossibilities  has  some  secret  attraction 
for  the  world.  Delightful  prospects  I  could  see  in  the 
distance,  fertile  fields  with  the  promise  of  abundant  har- 
vest, pleasant  streams  running  down  the  sides  of  the 
mountain  and  watering  the  vales ;  cold  glittering  snows 
I  could  behold  high  up  above  me  on  the  peaks.  But 
wherever  I  went,  whatever  I  touched,  TV  as  the  rude  bram- 
ble, the  sterile  rock ;  a  rough  inhospitable  tract  always 
bordered  my  pathway.  When  I  sought  to  descend  into 
the  valley  below  me  where  were  the  Olives  and  vineyards, 
an  impassable  precipice  cut  me  off ;  when  I  attempted  to 
reach  the  home  of  Apollo,  beholding  it  afar  in  the  God's 
own  sunlight,  only  wings  which  I  had  not  could  have 
borne  me  thither ;  finally,  when  I  sought  to  go  down  the 
dark  gorge  to  Delphic  Castalia,  fount  of  the  Muses,  ter- 
rific barriers,  even  monstrous  sights,  threw  themselves 
across  my  path,  till  by  the  warning  of  the  Goddess  I 
turned  back  from  the  final  leap. 

Thus  I  strayed  in  capricious  goat-paths  that  led  no- 
whither,  or  pushed  through  desolate  places  with  only  a 
glimpse  of  the  sunlit  goal,  yet  with  no  possible  attain- 
ment. What  *is  the  result  of  the  day's  experience? 
Clearly  this :  not  by  such  a  route  canst  thou  reach  Del- 
phi, with  its  musical  fountain  and  divine  temple.  Back, 
then,  unravel  the  day  and  what  is  in  it ;  undo  the  deed 
entirely,  and  begin  anew,  for  there  is  a  way  thither,  but 
not  thus.  Impassable  cliffs,  lonely  sterility,  dark  chasms 
lie  in  this  path,  bitterly  astray  thou  hast  gone.  Still  keep 


THE  NEW  LIFE   OF  OLD  PARNASSUS.         355 

patience  and  hope,  twin  sisters  of  the  present  and  the 
future ;  hereafter  follow  thy  honest  and  knowing  guide, 
and  wander  not  after  thy  caprices,  which  like  goat-paths 
lead  nowhither,  running  everywhither.  Back,  then,  to 
the  starting  point  once  more  with  thy  new  knowledge, 
and  do  the  thing  over  again,  which  has  been  wholly 
wrong  from  the  beginning. 

Such  is  life,  or  such  at  least  is  the  wanderer's  life, 
were  he  to  make  a  clean  confession ;  all  has  to  be  done 
over  again,  inwrought  with  the  new  experience.  Take 
this  day,  if  you  wish,  as  the  image_of  his  eternity,  and 
of  yours,  too.  You  shall  strive  to  reach  the  goal,  but 
you  shall  have  to  run  the  race  again ;  when  you  have  even 
attained  the  end,  then  you  are  fairly  ready  to  start.  But 
enough  ;  there  is  a  road  to  Delphi,  for  many  have  traveled 
it ;  the  place  exists,  for  I  saw  it  myself ;  what  more  need 
one  know?  To-morrow  morning  I  shall  begin  prepara- 
tion for  the  journey ;  the  next  day,  or  the  day  after  that, 
or  still  the  next,  I  shall  start  on  the  straight  known  road  ; 
then,  if  the  Gods  find  me  swerving  from  that,  let  them 
smite  me  dead  upon  the  spot. 

I  was  curious  to  find  out  whether  it  was  possible  to 
have  gone  through  the  channel,  if  I  had  taken  the  leap. 
They  told  me  that  there  were  several  descents  after  that 
which  stopped  me  —  one  of  at  least  two  hundred  feet.  So 
I  would  have  been  caught  between  the  precipices  and 
imprisoned  in  the  dungeon  of  Gaia,  primeval  Earth. 
Well  was  it  that  the  Goddess  Athena  held  my  arm  as  I 
raised  it  to  fling  my  staff  over  the  steep  descent;  she 
indeed  saves  from  the  dark,  deathful  embrace  of  Gaia. 
Behold  yourself  there  now ;  you  can  not  go  forward,  can 
not  go  backward ;  what  is  to  be  done  ?  Yell  the  weary 
hours  away  in  the  hope  that  some  straggling  shepherd 
may  hear  and  come  to  the  rescue ;  but  in  vain.  Then 
sleep  in  feverish  dreams  the  bodeful  night  away  —  and  so 
on  till  the  voice  weakens  to  faintness,  to  silence,  and  the 
tired  body  lies  down  on  a  rock  to  its  last  rest.  But  do 
not  shed  a  tear,  the  Goddess  held  my  arm,  and  the  dark 
monster,  instead  of  myself,  found  only  my  cumbersome 
mantle  within  its  deep-gaping  jaws  of  adamant.  Thus 


356  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

with  a  shudder  I  triumph ;  and  you  with  me,  I  could 
gladly  believe. 

It  rained  the  night  after,  and  the  rain  filled  my  dreams 
with  a  new  deluge.  I  am  compelled  to  stay  in  the  gorge, 
lying  in  its  narrow  bed ;  the  showers  descend,  the  waters 
begin  to  rush  down  the  channel  with  boiling  violence. 
At  first  I  perch  myself  on  a  thin  strip  of  rock  outside  the 
stream ;  then,  with  feet  in  water,  I  resist  the  current  in  a 
desperate  struggle  ;  but  the  cloud  bursts  on  the  mountain, 
which  suddenly  becomes  a  vast  waterfall;  the  torrent 
sweeps  me  down  and  tumbles  me  over  the  precipice. 
Still  I  rejoice  • —  I  was  saved  because  Athena  held  my  arm. 
Such  salvation  comes  to  him  whom  the  Goddess  restrains 
from  taking  a  leap  into  that  rock-walled  chasm  in  which 
there  is  no  advance  and  no  return. 

Moreover,  if  I  can  read  her  divine  decree  aright,  she 
refuses  me  as  yet  an  entrance  to  the  antique  Delphic 
world ;  she  has  thrown  me  back  even  with  violence  upon 
modern  Arachoba,  where  the  life  of  antiquity  is  not  a  ruin 
but  is  still  ruddy,  being  seen  and  felt  in  all  the  vividness 
of  the  present.  Here,  then,  we  shall  stay,  dutifully  obey- 
ing her  holy  command,  till  she  bid  us  start  again  for 
Delphi. 


XVI.   THE  TWO  WORLDS  OF  PARNASSUS. 

There  is  a  tone  of  rejoicing  throughout  the  town  this 
Saturday  evening ;  the  matron  smiles,  the  maiden  moves 
with  a  lighter  grace,  the  old  man  tells  a  new  story - 
everybody  seems  to  be  looking  forward  to  some  new  joy ; 
what  is  the  matter?  A  festival  to-morrow ;  to-night  the 
people  are  allowed  to  eat  meat,  and  great  is  their  happi- 
ness. Sheep  and  goats  are  slaughtered  in  the  public 
place  before  the  chief  wineshop  ;  the  blood  of  the  animals 
runs  down  into  the  gutter  and  is  licked  up  by  the  dogs, 
while  the  inhabitants  look  on  during  the  operation.  A 
deft  butcher  hangs  up  the  flesh  as  fast  as  it  is  ready,  when 


THE   TWO    WORLDS  OF  PARNASSUS.  357 

it  is  rapidly  sold  and  carried  away.  Everywhere  one 
meets  with  that  quiet  feeling  of  delight  which  says :  To- 
morrow is  a  festival.  Lent  is  just  at  hand ;  before  plung- 
ing into  its  sorrows  and  abstinences,  let  us  enjoy  once 
more  our  happy  earth  and  its  sunshine. 

On  the  morrow  the  people  go  to  church  and  drone  after 
the  priest  the  service,  with  many  a  gesticulation  and 
genuflection,  meaningless  enough  to  the  stranger ;  still  it 
seems  to  satisfy  the  assembled  multitude  and  make  them 
happier,  therefore  let  it  be  called  good.  St.  George'' s,  the 
new  Cathedral  is  full  to  overflowing ;  Panaghia,  the  other 
church  of  the  place,  will  not  contain  the  throng.  It  is  a 
day  of  festival,  Heaven  itself  and  all  the  Saints  must  be 
brought  in  to  share  the  joy  —  for  joy  is  here  a  religious 
matter.  The  women,  as  in  the  Byzantine  churches 
generally,  keep  on  the  outside  of  the  sacred  railing,  and 
remain  together ;  in  white-red  costume,  with  faces  peer- 
ing out  of  the  kerchiefed  hair,  with  cast-down  looks  of 
sweet  piety,  they  stand  there  massed  in  rows  behind  one 
another — a  view  very  pleasing;  to  me,  I  shall  have  to 
confess,  altogether  the  most  attractive  thing  in  the 
church. 

The  Greek  is  a  great  lover  of  festivals,  and  they  are  all 
connected  with  his  church ;  in  fact  it  is  usually  said  that 
there  are  too  many  of  them  in  the  course  of  the  year  for  a 
serious  world.  This  custom  of  festivals  is  a  direct  in- 
heritance of  ancient  Greek  worship,  which  filled  the 
calendar  with  festal  days  sacred  to  the  various  Gods ;  it 
shows  too  that  Christianity  sought  to  adapt  itself  to  what 
already  existed.  Still  further,  the  new  faith  had  to  adjust 
itself  to  the  Greek  character.  Earthly  joyousness  goes 
hand  in  hand  with  devotion  ;  religion  has  seized  upon  and 
promoted  the  gladsome  side  of  man's  nature,  has  recon- 
ciled itself  with  happiness.  God  gives  to  man  festivals, 
and  the  duty  of  the  latter  is  to  celebrate  them.  How 
different  is  our  Puritanism !  There  Sin  forever  stands  in 
the  background,  Sin  from  the  beginning  of  the  world,  Sin 
from  Adam's  fall  in  which  we  all  participate.  Each  soul 
is  born  a  guilty  thing,  let  it  never  dare  think  of  joy  till  it 
somehow  or  other  get  rid  of  a  sin  which  it  never  com- 


358  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

mitted.  The  innocent  maid,  pure  as  the  angels,  has  done 
nothing,  still  her  conscience  is  taught  to  accuse  her ;  if 
she  find  nought  of  guilt  in  her  heart,  so  much  the  worse 
for  her ;  she  is  told  that  her  heart  is  hardened  in  utter 
depravity.  This  Sin,  standing  in  the  background  of 
Human  Life,  and  casting  a  deep  shadow  over  it  with 
ever-threatening  wings,  has  much  resemblance  to  the 
Greek  Fate,  an  amorphous  black  Power,  which  swayed 
mankind  with  a  hopeless  necessity  and  had  supremacy 
even  over  Gods.  Fate  overwhelmed  the  Hellenic  world, 
as  we  saw  at  Chaeroneia,  and  became  a  terrific  reality ; 
now  it  is  no  longer  an  external  Power,  but  has  gone  within 
the  soul  of  man  and  become  Sin;  there  it  eternally 
threatens  him  with  torment ;  still  a  dark  angel  it  is,  but 
at  present  it  seeks  to  sway  the  inner  world  of  conscience 
by  its  bodeful  menacings.  The  Greeks,  however,  re- 
mained joyous,  with  black  Fate  always  hanging  over 
them  ;  and  let  us  too  conquer  our  fiend,  reserving  our  con- 
science for  the  guilty  deed ;  for  we  distort  it  and  corrupt 
it,  if  we  plague  it  with  the  guiltless  deed.  Then  for  the 
happy  victory  let  us  have  a  Greek  festival,  in  which  we 
are  glad,  glad  that  we  are  born,  glad  that  we  live  upon 
this  earth  whose  heavy-pacing  Time  we  are  going  to  inter- 
polate with  many  a  bright  holiday. 

Shortly  after  dinner  the  people,  especially  the  young 
people,  can  be  seen  flocking  through  the  streets  to  a  com- 
mon place  of  meeting.  That  place  is  just  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  town,  and  is  known  as  the  place  of  the  chorus,  be- 
ing leveled  off  and  kept  free  from  obstruction.  Young 
men  have  the  snow-white  fustanella  with  its  profusion  of 
folds  dancing  from  thigh  to  thigh  as  they  move ;  often  a 
richly-embroidered  dark  jacket  is  put  on  over  the  fusta- 
nella ;  a  red  fez  or  ornamented  parti-colored  cap  sets  off 
the  head.  So  the  youth,  proud,  erect,  of  handsome  fig- 
ure, treads  along  with  a  gait  like  a  strut,  conscious  of 
being  worthy  of  the  title  of  Palicari.  A  right  festal  figure, 
you  will  say,  raying  joy  everywhere  through  the  land- 
scape. 

But  the  maiden,  the  genuine  Arachobitza,  is  also  com- 
ing out,  appearing  in  a  new  costume,  which  belongs  to 


THE  TWO  WORLDS  OF  PAENASSUS.     359 

her  town  alone  of  the  whole  world.  There  is  first  the 
white  dress",  short,  allowing  the  new  shoes,  tidily  polished, 
to  be  seen ;  even  the  decorated  stockings  will  entice  a 
glance  from  the  traveler,  if  he  be  somewhat  of  a  prying 
turn.  Over  the  white  dress  is  worn  in  cool  weather  a 
woolen  mantle,  sometimes  dark  but  usually  white  ;  then 
down  in  front  falls  the  narrow  red  apron,  reaching  quite 
to  the  shoes  ;  around  the  loins  is  scarfed  the  red  girdle  in 
warm  embrace.  On  the  head  is  a  white  close-fitting 
kerchief,  quite  concealing  the  hair  except  a  thin  crescent 
of  it  in  front,  but  permitting  it  to  fall  down  the  back  in  a 
long  braid.  Nor  should  the  metallic  decoration  remain 
unnoticed,  varying  considerably  with  the  taste  of  the 
wearer,  who  seems  to  prefer  coin  to  all  other  ornaments. 
The  roseate  face  fading  into  the  white  fresh  neck  peers  out 
in  living  contrast  to  the  garments,  and  yet  in  complete 
harmony  with  their  colors ;  sun-rise  is  in  every  cheek 
pursuing  the  milk-white  dawn. 

But  a  description  of  colors  is  dry  and  uninteresting, 
compared  to  the  reality ;  only  the  eye  can  sport  in  these 
thousandfold  changes,  and  dance  over  the  multitudinous 
billows  of  living  hues.  Drunk  with  color  our  vision  be- 
comes to-day ;  it  is  a  festival  of  sight.  Let  us  try  once 
more  to  seize  the  image  by  simplifying  it :  white  is  the 
background  of  dress,  on  this  white  is  placed  the  vivid 
scarlet ;  then  some  dark  spots  dot  the  mass  of  figures  here 
and  there,  like  the  passing  clouds  in  a  serene  sky. 

Nor  must  we  forget  the  happy  harmony  between  body 
and  dress.  The  face  gives  the  ground-tones  of  color  for 
the  costume  ;  the  red  and  white  of  the  garments  find  their 
source  and  living  relation  in  the  red  and  white  of  the 
visage.  On,  the  other  hand,  the  form  of  dress  must  be 
determined  by  form  of  body,  which  therein  is  concealed, 
but  in  a  truer  sense  is  revealed.  Now  the  sport  of  these 
two  simple  colors  over  the  human  frame  has  something 
wonderfully  joyous  and  vivacious  in  it ;  it  is  the  merri- 
ment of  a  fond  pair  of  twins,  rolling  and  winding  in  each 
others'  playful  embraces,  capriciously,  but  always  giving 
out  the  same  festal  look. 

But    we   must   behold   these   colors  in  mass  brightly 


360  A    WALK  IX  HELLAS. 

moving  through  one  another  in  manifold  changes.  The 
whole  town  is  present  in  the  open  air,  either  taking  part 
in  the  dance  or  looking  on  with  an  instinctive  delight  in 
these  hues  and  in  their  intertwining  movements.  Several 
hundred  people  are  gathering,  dressed  in  their  peculiar 
costume,  with  the  exception  of  half  a  dozen  or  so  in 
European  garments.  All  the  women  are  apparelled  quite 
alike,  in  the  same  fashion  and  same  colors  ;  the  spectacle 
of  the  entire  body  of  them,  massed  together  on  a  slight 
elevation  above  the  choral  ground,  makes  the  joy  of  the 
day  irresistible.  Then  the  colors  are  endowed  with  life 
and  motion,  forming  a  hundred  graceful  combinations 
every  minute.  I  come  down  into  the  village  from  the 
hills  above  and  gaze  at  the  display  of  hues  ;  these  maidens, 
or  rather  colors,  can  be  seen  streaming  through  all  the 
labyrinthine  ways  of  the  town  toward  the  dancing  ground. 
From  the  turn  of  this  hill  I  can  look  down  into  the  heart 
of  the  place  and  follow  each  bright  form  moving  to  that 
spot  of  greensward,  moving  from  the  town's  heart  in  red 
streamlets,  one  may  say.  Add  to  these  strong  tints  the 
beautiful  day  wherein  Apollo  puts  every  object  as  well  as 
the  entire  scene  into  a  mild  yet  joyous  setting  of  golden 
radiance,  and  you  have  this  touch  of  Parnassian  existence. 
Groups  of  white  forms  of  youths  also  move  in  sculptui'esque 
dignity,  yet  with  a  light-hearted  tread  toward  the  same 
locality  —  all  with  one  note  in  their  heart. 

Out  of  one  of  the  streets  emerges  the  band  of  musi- 
cians, composed  of  two  men  —  one  beating  the  drum,  the 
other  playing  the  caramousa,  an  instrument  which  has 
already  been  mentioned  as  snarling.  This  strange  music 
rides  heavily  on  the  air,  yet  with  strongly  marked  em- 
phasis ;  it  is  no  music  in  our  sense  of  the  word,  it  has  no 
tune.  But  the  dance  begins  to  its  beat;  the  circle  of 
youths  is  at  once  formed,  which  the  maidens  join.  After 
a  short  time,  there  comes  a  second  band  of  music,  with 
caramousa  and  drum ;  a  second  chorus  is  formed  in  a 
second  cirqle  alongside  of  the  first.  Thus  the  festivity 
opens,  Joy  is  king  of  Parnassus. 

These  dances  are  not  like  our  dances,  and  have  in  many 
respects  a  different  purpose.  The  circle  is  formed  by 


THE   TWO    WORLDS   OF  PARNASSUS.  361 

joining  hands ;  two  or  three  steps  forward  are  taken, 
then  backward,  with  a  slight  canter  of  the  feet ;  then  an- 
other movement  forward  and  backward,  and  so  on  with 
manifold  repetition.  What  is  in  the  thing?  one  asks  im- 
patiently, perhaps.  It  is  motion,  love  of  motion  with  its 
graceful  turns  and  undulating  outlines ;  love  of  motion 
for  its  own  sake  and  nothing  else.  In  this  respect  these 
rustics  show  an  inborn  taste  and  natural  artistic  instinct 
which  will  surpi'ise  the  observer  from  abroad;  it  will 
soon  be  seen  that  the  dance  is  not  a  wild  frenzy  in  which 
youth  seeks  to  get  rid  of  its  own  excess  of  animal  spirits, 
nor  does  it  ever  become  a  maze  of  complicated  figures 
in  which  the  sense  of  harmonious  movement  is  lost.  Rus- 
tic is  the  dance  indeed,  yet  truly  Greek  in  spirit;  the 
spectator  who  does  not  feel  that  spirit  in  it,  must  have 
little  feeling  for  Greek  Art.  The  simplest  means  are  used 
to  exhibit  bodily  perfection,  grace  of  outline,  and  har- 
mony of  movement.  At  times  the  head  dancer  may  leap 
and  give  a  whirl,  and  otherwise  perform  some  unusual 
gyrations ;  but  that  does  not  alter  the  character  of  the 
dance.  Thus  the  old  Greek  chorus  must  have  been, 
though  infinitely  more  delicate  and  more  developed  in 
every  way ;  the  lyrist  Pindar  would  rear  this  germ  to 
beautiful  perfection  ;  but  here  is  still  the  fresh  rose-bud 
which  once  unfolded  into  the  Parnassian  rose,  fairest  of 
earthly  flowers. 

Another  characteristic  which  strongly  marks  these 
dances  is  the  extreme  modesty  and  chaste  manner  of  the 
female  participants.  Often  they  form  a  chorus  by  them- 
selves, and  when  they  dance  in  the  same  circle  with  the 
young  men,  it  is  not  by  pairs,  but  the  youths  occupy  one 
half  of  the  circle  and  the  maidens  the  other  half,  while 
only  the  central  couples  join  hands.  Not  prudish  is  this, 
but  a  delicate  and  perfectly  natural  touch  of  modest  re- 
serve. Nor  do  the  women  make  any  of  the  unusual  move- 
ments, any  of  the  fantastic  leaps  which  are  allowed  to 
the  youths,  but  they  keep  within  the  customary  limits  of 
the  dance.  They  never  spring  with  a  violence  which 
dashes  their  dress  above  their  ankles,  or  seek  to  attract 
attention  by  unusual  behavior.  All  is  chaste  simplicity, 


362  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

with  a  sense  of  moderation  which  the  traveler  wonders  at 
among  a  rural  population,  yet  all  is  filled  with  an  inner 
quiet  joy;  existence  is  a  holiday.  One  will  be  often 
forced  to  exclaim  to  himself:  Yes,  here  is  still  the  germ 
rude  and  undeveloped  ;  here  is  still  that  same  old  artistic 
instinct,  which  shunned  excess  like  death,  and  sought 
beauty  in  moderation,  harmoniously  balancing  all  the 
fierce  contradictions  of  life. 

As  I  stood  there  looking  at  the  dancers,  a  young 
Greek  whom  I  knew,  caught  hold  of  me  and  pulled  me 
into  the  circle.  At  once  the  crowd  shouted,  "Bring  him 
in,  and  have  him  dance."  My  two  hands  were  held  with 
a  friendly  persistence,  and  I  not  unwillingly  danced 
along,  though  amid  the  titters  of  the  pretty  maids  of 
Arachoba.  I  had  watched  the  step,  and  thought  it  easy, 
but  I  found  that  it  required  some  practice.  Then  I 
swayed  backward  and  forward  with  my  long  overcoat, 
broad-soled  shoes  and  European  costume  out  of  tune 
with  the  time ;  I  felt  the  dissonance,  mine  was  the  sole 
inharmonious  note  in  the  company,  still  with  a  walk  and  a 
trip  I  went  through  all  the  movements.  But  they  laughed 
at  me,  and  I  laughed  at  myself,  dancing  the  Greek  chorus 
with  youths  and  maidens  on  Parnassus,  under  the  very 
breath  of  the  Muses.  Still  it  must  be  done ;  the  Greek 
journey  would  be  worthless  without  just  that  inspiration 
from  the  Sacred  Sisters. 

Many  a  graceful  turn  will  fall  into  the  eye  and  arouse 
the  feeling  of  festal  delight;  many  a  suggestion  there 
will  be  of  the  ancient  joy  of  bodily  movement.  To-day 
a  Palicari,  at  the  request  of  a  friend,  conducted  me  to  his 
house  and  walked  before  me.  The  proud  free  stride,  the 
care  with  which  he  moved  his  limbs  to  show  their  grace 
and  dexterity,  were  a  marvel ;  for  remember  that  the  out- 
lines of  his  limbs  were  not  lost  in  lopping  French 
breeches,  but  in  his  close-fitting  hose  they  revealed  form 
and  motion  perfectly.  Then  the  throw  of  the  folds  of  his 
fustanella  showed  all  the  skill  of  movement,  and  shared 
in  the  proud  bearing  of  his  body,  with  a  delicate  play  of 
their  own.  Thus  he  strode  before  me,  entrancing  me  with 
his  motion,  for  the  stress  which  he  laid  upon  his  gait  was 


THE  TWO  WORLDS  OF  PARNASSUS.    363 

certainly  the  result  of  intention,  he  was  a  work  of  art  be- 
fore my  eyes.  No  such  movement  is  possible  in  our 
dress,  and  probably  no  peasantry  but  this  Greek  one  has 
such  an  inborn  delight  in  harmonious  motions.  All  the 
possibilities  of  ancient  Greek  sculpture  are  still  here ;  the 
models  even  might  be  selected ;  yet  it  is  but  the  germ, 
the  primitive  instinct,  which,  however,  with  cultivation, 
would  again  shoot  up  into  forms  of  marble  and  poetry  from 
this  slope  of  Parnassus. 

A  friendly  Papas  I  met  on  the  ground ;  he  invited  me 
to  enter  a  house  with  him  which  overlooked  the  choral 
place ;  people,  simple  and  poor,  lived  there,  but  they 
served  up  wine,  walnuts  and  sweetmeats  with  generous 
hospitality.  Man  and  wife  are  over  fifty  years  of  age, 
yet  they  both  say  that  they  dance  at  the  festivals.  No 
old  age  has  yet  blighted  their  youthful  feelings,  or  even 
their  cheeks,  eternal  youth  is  in  this  house,  like  that 
"emotion  which  ancient  Greece  herself  everywhere  in- 
spires. I  imagine  that  an  aged  person  would  feel  young 
in.  this  town  to-day.  People  a  hundred  years  old  are  not 
uncommon,  walking  still  with  a  light  gait,  it  is  said ;  men 
over  eighty  years  of  age  still  go  to  their  work  in  the 
fields.  Old  age  this  is,  but  without  the  lapse.  The 
mountain  air,  bracing  and  pure,  embalms  life  in  that  per- 
fect gem,  the  body.  This  body,  trained  to  harmonious 
movement,  is  the  mirror  of  the  Greek  wherein  he  beholds 
his  own  soul ;  thus  existence  becomes  to  him  spontaneous 
poetry,  not  written  but  lived,  a  continuous  sculpturesque 
movement. 

In  such  manner  Old  Age  disappears  in  festal  Ara- 
choba  —  at  least  to-day.  I  go  to  the  house  of  my  host,  and 
engage  to  dance  next  Sunday  with  his  mother,  who  would 
elsewhere  be  humbled  by  her  years.  Indeed  sometimes 
the  Greeks  are  so  deeply  imbued  with  a  love  of  youth 
that  they  quite  forget  that  they  are  old.  I  have  in 
mind  a  Greek  lady,  still  beautiful  and  well  preserved,  who 
passed  off  her  own  daughter  upon  me  as  her  sister.  So 
at  least  was  my  understanding  of  the  relation,  till  I  was 
laughed  at  and  corrected  by  an  outsider.  In  the  exuber- 
ance of  Greek  youth,  she  had  quite  forgotten  that  she  was 
the  mother. 


364  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

As  I  was  standing  and  looking  with  admiration  at  the 
chorus,  identifying  it  in  many  ways  with  antique  things, 
I  was  accosted  by  a  man  who  asked  me  if  I  held  the  doc- 
trines of  Plioulmar.  His  manner,  moreover,  seemed  to 
indicate  that  he  thought  the  said  Phoulmar  to  be  a 
wretch,  if  not  the  Evil  One  himself.  But  who  in  the 
world  is  Phoulmar?  I  was  puzzled  to  know  what  the 
man  meant,  when  further  inquiry  developed  the  fact  that 
none  other  was  intended  than  our  old  German  friend 
Fallmerayer,  who  has  sought  with  such  obstinacy  to  dis- 
prove the  Greek  origin  of  the  Greeks.  Now,  if  there  is 
one  invariable  article  in  the  creed  of  the  modern  Greek, 
it  is  that  he  is  a  lineal  descendant  of  the  ancient  Gi'eek, 
and  that  he  in  person  is  entitled  to  all  the  honors,  digni- 
ties and  privileges  which  belong  to  a  descent  from  such 
high  ancestry.  But  now  comes  a  German  pedagogue, 
this  Fallmerayer,  and  with  a  vast  display  of  erudition, 
tries  to  invalidate  the  claim.  The  result  is,  the  name  of" 
Fallmerayer  has  gone  into  the  provinces,  has  percolated 
through  the  layers  of  the  people,  and  been  changed 
thereby  to  the  title  of  a  sort  of  demon  or  Antichrist,  a 
type  of  all  that  is  hostile  to  the  orthodox  Hellenic  race  — 
in  fine,  the  Greek  devil.  Accordingly  I  was  at  once 
questioned  upon  this  important  article  of  faith  on  the 
place  of  the  chorus  in  presence  of  severe  judges. 

Of  course  I  could  give  a  favorable  answer,  for  the 
whole  theory  was  unsound  from  its  basis,  though  with 
some  scattered  fragments  of  truth  ;  moreover,  it  has  been 
quite  set  aside  in  recent  years  by  the  labors  of  another 
German  investigator ;  and  is  it  not  refuted  by  what  I  see 
before  me?  But  that  strange  German  pedagogue  with 
his  crooked  idea !  The  idea  is  there  in  his  head  and  is 
crooked ;  the  whole  world  must  conform  to  that  idea, 
though  the  world  thereby  get  crooked,  too.  So  great  is 
very  often  the  significance  of  the  idea  to  the  German 
pedagogue,  particularly  if  it  be  crooked.  He  pours  into 
it  all  the  treasures  of  books,  all  the  buried  lore  of  libra- 
ries, to  the  very  dust  and  mould ;  no  man  on  our  earth 
can  compare  with  him  in  erudition  and  multifarious 
reading.  Wonderful,  very  wonderful  he  is  indeed,  but 


THE    TWO    WORLDS   OF  PARNASSUS.          365 

his  idea  is  crooked  and  the  whole  universe  gets  twisted 
and  gnarled  in  passing  through  convolutions  of  his  brain, 
and  has  to  be  straightened  out  again,  often  with  infinite 
labor.  Thus  mysteriously  I  met  the  shadow  of  my  fellow 
guildsman,  the  Bavarian  schoolmaster,  on  Parnassus,  hav- 
ing become  a  veritable  goblin  there. 

Thus  it  is  with  thee,  O  Fallmerayer's  Johann  Philip  — 
and  I  curiously  quiz,  how  will  it  be  with  me  ?  But  mark 
another  offense :  this  very  Arachoba  he  declares  to  be 
not  a  Greek  word  but  Slavic,  and  cites  several  other 
names  of  places  just  like  it  between  the  Mediterranean 
and  the  Baltic.  Now  Arachoba  revenges  itself  by  con- 
sidering him  a  brigand  and  an  infidel.  Still  worse :  he 
affirms  that  Arachoba  means  Crab  Town  (or  more  exactly 
Crab  Corner,  Krebseck),  as  if  to  insult  the  place  with 
disgusting  etymology.  No  wonder  Arachoba  examines 
suspiciously  the  visitor  concerning  his  affinities  with 
Phoulmar. 

A  fiery,  fighting  soul  the  schoolmaster  had  —  he  fought 
against  Napoleon  for  German  liberation,  before  he  began 
this  war  against  the  Hellenic  name  ;  one  feels  his  charac- 
ter in  his  style,  for  his  words  often  leap  forth  red-hot, 
when  it  were  better  if  they  had  remained  cool.  Intensi- 
ty of  utterance  he  has  ;  withal  he  is  a  most  impracticable, 
stiff-necked  person,  ready  to  measure  swords  with  any- 
body, particularly  on  the  Greek  question.  Still  I  like 
to  think  of  the  old  schoolmaster  who  explored  hither- 
wards  before  me ;  what  a  strange  wake  of  light  he  has 
left  behind !  It  is,  however,  a  light,  though  a  little  sul- 
phurous, and  now  grown  somewhat  dim  in  more  recent 
light.  Much  that  he  has  said  was  true,  or  the  beginning 
of  truth ;  he  would  have  it  all  true,  that  was  the  diffi- 
culty ;  so  the  idea  gets  crooked.  His  own  weapon  of  eru- 
dition has  been  turned  against  him ;  moreover  the  eye 
will  confute  him,  beholding  so  often  on  this  soil  the  old 
in  the  new.  Such  a  difference  shows  itself  to  the  eyes  of 
the  two  schoolmasters  visiting  Parnassus. 

But  the  dancing  continues  and  the  music.  This  music, 
however,  is  a  problem.  What  doom  will  the  startled  hu- 
man ear  pass  upon  it?  Notice  the  player  on  the  cara- 


366  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

mousa,  how  he  blows!  Slowly  he  moves  around  the 
inside  of  the  circle,  keeping  time  and  making  gestures 
with  his  instrument  in  his  mouth.  Desperately  he  blows, 
turning  red  with  the  exertion,  and  inflating  his  cheeks  with 
breath  till  his  eyes  seem  ready  to  shoot  from  their  sock- 
ets ;  Gabriel,  the  last  and  greatest  trumpeter,  will  not 
more  completely  blow  himself  into  that  final  blast  an- 
nouncing the  end  of  all  things.  Now  and  then  the  player 
passes  out  of  the  circle  into  the  surrounding  crowd  for 
a  penny,  though  these  pennies  are  not  frequent.  Long 
will  he  remember  me  by  a  small  piece  of  silver  which  I 
gave  him,  a  Danish  coin,  which  had  been  put  upon  me  in 
some  of  my  exchanges.  Marching  around  the  circle  with 
him  is  the  drummer,  slashing  away  with  drumstick  in  one 
hand,  and  in  the  other  holding  a  switch  against  the  drum- 
head, thereby  producing  a  crawling  sound.  A  strange 
music  indeed,  yet  it  marks  the  time  strongly  —  in  fact  it 
does  more,  it  marks  the  movement  of  the  body.  This  is 
then,  the  clew  of  the  matter:  music  in  the  present  case 
is  wholly  subordinate  to  movement  which  it  must  empha- 
size at  important  changes.  It  is  not  an  independent  art 
which  can  be  listened  to  by  people  sitting  quietly  at  the 
concert ;  it  has  no  significance  without  the  accompanying 
bodily  motion,  which  it  rudely  hints  and  controls  in  a 
subordinate  way.  To  portray  the  tossings  and  interweav- 
ings  of  all  shades  of  the  emotions  —  this  is  the  realm  of 
modern  music,  not  of  ancient ;  not  even  the  Greek  music 
of  to-day  has  any  such  purpose.  It  is  at  most  rhythmical, 
and  thus  we  fall  back  to  that  love  of  motion  expressed  in 
the  human  body,  which  lies  at  the  very  foundation  of  all 
Greek  Art. 

Similar,  too,  is  the  song ;  it  has  a  decided  rhythmical 
tendency,  and  seems  out  of  place  apart  from  the  dance. 
It  is  not  the  words  so  much  as  the  movement,  upon  which 
stress  is  laid.  Such  was  doubtless  the  ancient  chorus  — 
a  harmonious  combination  of  song,  instruments  and 
dance,  of  which  only  a  few  fragments  of  the  verse  have 
come  down  to  us.  The  dance  was  to  be  a  gallery  of  sculpt- 
ure set  to  beautiful  movement  in  the  forms  of  fair  youths  ; 
the  ode,  in  word  and  voice,  uttered  the  same  as  the  dance, 


THE   TWO   WORLDS  OF  PARNASSUS.          367 

which  found  its  completeness  in  the  accompaniment  of 
flute  and  lyre ;  so  these  arts  were  joined  together  in  sweet 
concord  which  are  now  separated ;  the  ancient  lyric  poet 
not  only  made  the  verse  but  taught  the  whole  chorus  in 
all  its  elements.  Thus  we  find  that  this  Greek  music  has 
its  root  in  the  antique  and  is  not  without  meaning. 

But  another  question  is  agitating  all  this  time  the  trav- 
eler far  more  deeply:  Where  is  the  old  Greek  ideal? 
Often  have  the  beautiful  women  of  Arachoba  been  cele- 
brated along  his  route ;  here  they  are  now  before  him, 
hundreds  of  faces  which  he  will  eagerly  scan,  not  with- 
out an  inner  exaltation.  That  which  strikes  him  is  the 
number  of  blondes  he  will  see  —  not  the  flaxen  blonde  of 
the  North,  but  the  golden  blonde  of  the  South,  with  long 
luxuriant  hair  glistening  in  a  soft  glow  like  that  of  even- 
ing sunbeams,  and  pouring  over  the  head  and  down  the 
back  a  mild,  yet  frolicsome  sheen  of  gold.  The  tender 
blue  eyes  melting  in  their  own  modest  warmth  are  also 
here,  to  my  astonishment,  as  well  as  the  lily  complexion 
tinged  with  the  fresh  morning  red.  Yet  not  all  are  thus, 
by  any  means ;  the  most  of  the  faces  are  of  a  dark  tint, 
yet  never  brown-burnt.  Nor  are  the  features  always  reg- 
ular, but  the  Greek  profile  one  will  see  at  times  in  sur- 
prising perfection ;  the  forehead,  the  triangular  nose  with 
softly  rounded  angles,  the  line  connecting  forehead  and 
nose  are  all  here,  to  be  marked  by  any  careful  eye. 

What,  then,  may  one  affirm  about  the  Greek  type  found 
at  Arachoba?  As  I  was  engaged  in  the  dance,  I  was  at 
times  brought  very  close  to  many  of  these  faces,  yet  you 
must  think  quite  short  of  absolute  contact ;  it  was  a  good 
opportunity  to  see  them  massed  together  and  to  glance 
into  their  eyes.  On  the  knoll  shelving  toward  the  chorus 
stood  a  small  amphitheater  full  of  these  roseate  visages 
rising  one  above  the  other,  and  overlooking  the  dance. 
The  63^6  will  note  the  common  type  in  all,  though  it 
varies  from  homeliness  to  beauty.  These  are  laboring 
people,  peasants  ;  to-morrow  they  will  be  in  the  Olives  and 
vineyards ;  even  the  maidens  have  to  toil  in  the  fields 
under  the  hot  sun,  though  the  location  be  high.  A 
strongly  marked  handsome  girl  with  all  the  traits  of  Greek 


368  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

beauty  I  have-not  seen  to-day ;  it  is  the  type  which  causes 
admiration,  and  each  has  that  common  type,  not  without 
some  additional  touch  of  grace  or  prettiness,  if  it  be  only 
the  color.  The  traveler  will  enthusiastically  declare  it  to 
be  the  handsomest  peasantry,  taken  as  a  whole,  that  he 
has  yet  seen. 

This  is  my  conclusion :  the  ancient  Greek  type  can  still 
be  observed  on  Parnassus,  but  it  is  undeveloped.  The 
germs,  the  possibilities  of  the  old  Hellenic  world  are  now 
existing  amid  these  primeval  mountains :  such  is  the  deep- 
grounded  impression  to  which  one  always  returns.  The 
difficulty  is  that  the  primitive  Greek  germ  is  not  allowed 
to  develop  itself  freely  out  of  its  own  nature,  as  it  did  in 
antiquity.  Modern  Greek  culture  seeks  to  be  European, 
perchance,  must  be  European ;  higher  education  is  im- 
ported largely  from  Western  Europe.  The  cultivated 
man  from  the  University  of  Athens  has  lost  his  sympa- 
thy with  the  ancient  customs  of  his  fathers,  and  of  his 
fellow  townsmen:  the  cultivated  woman  throws  aside 
her  Arachobite  costume  as  rustic,  despises  the  rude 
chorus  and  music,  reads  European  books,  becomes  Eu- 
ropean in  dress,  manners  and  thought ;  in  fine,  both 
man  and  woman  lose  by  education  their  Greek  individu- 
ality. Thus  the  germ  of  primitive  Greek  is  choked  at 
the  start,  it  never  flowers  into  culture,  but  is  left  to  the 
peasant  to  retain  in  rustic  rudeness  and  simplicity. 

One  can  have  little  doubt  that  if  these  primitive  man- 
ners and  this  primitive  consciousness  were  developed 
from  their  purely  Greek  basis,  the  ancient  Hellenic  civil- 
ization would  again  appear.  If  the  man  would  always 
seek  to  unfold  these  germs  into  flower  and  fruit,  instead 
of  grafting  them  into  some  foreign  growth,  if  the  woman 
of  education  would  take  this  costume  and  add  to  it  grace 
and  refinement,  instead  of  adopting  the  latest  Parisian 
fashion,  if  she  were  trained  as  of  old  to  form  and  move- 
ment, of  which  the  rudiments  are  still  to  be  seen  in  the 
chorus,  the  ancient  Greek  beauty  might  come  to  life 
again,  and  we  might  see  the  models  of  the  old  sculptors 
and  painters.  This  is  my  firm  belief :  that  primeval  world, 
as  it  existed  even  before  Homer,  Hellenic  orPelasgic,  out 


THE   TWO    WORLDS   OF  PARNASSUS.          369 

of  which  Greek  civilization  developed  itself  of  its  own  in- 
herent force,  is  still  here  on  Parnassus,  stranded  upon  the 
mountain,  and  thereby  saved  from  the  wreck  of  thousands 
of  years.  Fleeing  from  the  swarms  of  invaders  that  over- 
flowed the  rich  plains,  to  lofty  and  sterile  fastnesses,  the 
old  stock  preserved  itself  ;  but  it  remains  a  germ,  and  this 
germ,  alive  though  it  be  now,  is  apparently  losing  its 
vitality.  What  hostility  never  could  do,  is  done  by 
civilization. 

Still  I  do  not  think  that  the  old  Greek  world  is  again 
going  to  appear  in  reality,  or  that  its  return  should  be  de- 
sired ;  still  less  do  I  think  that  it  would  take  the  same 
relative  position  in  the  world's  culture  as  in  antiquity, 
when  it  became  the  teacher  of  the  youthful  race.  Two 
thousand  years  have  passed  since  Greece  dropped  out  of 
the  World's  History,  having  fulfilled  its  mission;  the 
stream  of  time  is  not  going  to  turn  backwards.  But  we 
must  always  explore  its  course  and  behold  therein  our 
happy  early  childhood ;  for  after  all,  the  individual  man 
must  pass  through  again  what  his  race  has  passed  through. 
Hence  ancient  Greece  must  remain  the  eternal  school  of 
the  modern  world,  since  its  period  takes  in  just  the  school 
time  of  our  race.  For  such  purpose  modern  Greece  of- 
fers new  aid ;  this  must  be  our  chief,  but  not  our  only 
interest  in  the  Hellas  of  to-day  and  in  Parnassus,  where 
we  now  are. 

Anotherreflection^  already  hinted  at  Chseroneia,  will  force 
itself  now  more  strongly  upon  the  mind  of  the  observer : 
he  will  see  here  the  possibility  of  ancient  Greek  poetry. 
Let  the  true  singer  again  be  born  into  these  customs 
and  be  filled  with  their  beauty ;  let  the  songs  still  sung 
upon  this  spojb  be  made  by  a  man  of  genius,  illuminated 
with  the  culture  which  springs  directly  from  this  life  ;  let 
the  choruses  now  forming  the  amusement  of  rustics  only, 
be  unfolded  by  him  into  harmony,  rhythm,  grace  —  then 
you  have  the  poet  before  you  once  more,  quite  as  he  of  old 
arose  on  these  hills.  Let  the  person  of  wealth  and  leis- 
ure spend  his  time  and  thought  in  making  the  dance 
beautiful,  and  the  marriage  feast  and  the  festival,  taking 
hi3  chief  delight  in  rhythm  and  in  exalted  measure ;  let 

24 


370  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

him  support  the  poet  who  cuts  these  rough  diamonds  of 
the  people  into  exquisite  Greek  form,  then  one  can  not 
help  thinking,  the  ancient  poetical  world  will  spring  anew 
into  being.  Such  is  the  emphatic  feeling  which  comes 
over  the  traveler  beholding  these  original  rude  germs,  be- 
ing still  the  primordial  forces  of  what  Greece  once  be- 
came. With  a  little  fancy  and  poetical  instinct,  he  must 
feel  that  here  he  is  brought  into  contact  with  the  world 
which  produced  Pindar  and  his  rhythmical  odes  ;  nay,  he 
will  come  upon  many  a  strain  singing  out  of  the  back- 
ground of  old  Homer's  poesy.  The  original  elements 
which  summoned  both  these  ancient  bards  into  existence 
are  still  present  and  in  action. 

To-day  there  is  a  vast  body  of  popular  Greek  poetry, 
having  certain  turns  and  thoughts  universally  diffused, 
though  each  village  has  its  own  version  of  the  song,  and 
often  its  own  distinct  song.  The  bard,  too,  is  here  still, 
as  he  was  in  the  Homeric  village  ;  Arachoba  has  several, 
as  I  learn  on  inquiry,  poets  of  nature,  who  will  vary  some 
old  story  with  coloring  of  their  own,  just  as  the  ancient 
rhapsodist  diversified  his  one  theme,  the  tale  of  Troy. 
Thousands  of  lines  some  of  them  can  repeat  from  memory — 
a  feat  not  unlike  that  of  a  Homerid.  When  I  read  to  a 
small  company  a  few  Romaic  songs  from  my  Passow  Col- 
lection, one  of  my  hearers  declared  that  they  were  not 
complete,  and  he  brought  me  a  man  who  added  long  in- 
terpolations —  probably  the  Arachobite  version  of  the 
same  legends.  Thus  one  is  led  to  think  that  fragments 
of  some  Homeric  epic  may  still  be  floating  about  on  Par- 
nassus, without  any  Homer  as  yet  to  smelt  them  through 
the  furnace  of  poetic  genius  into  one  poem. 

The  popular  song  is  of  varied  theme  —  of  war,  of  brig- 
andage, of  fierce  Palicaris ;  often  of  love,  too,  and  even 
death  and  Charon.  The  voice  of  the  singers  has  no  great 
modulation  ;  it  is  rhythmical  rather,  like  Greek  music  gen- 
erally, which  really  has  no  tune  Herein  there  is  a  cor- 
respondence to  the  instruments  already  mentioned ;  but 
the  true  chorus  is  here,  forming  a  union  of  voice,  dance, 
poesy,  varied  with  the  flute  or  caramousa,  and  blending 
all  into  movement  of  body.  Still  the  rude  beginning, 


THE   TWO    WORLDS   OF  PAENASSUS.          371 

you  will  say,  of  those  intricate  harmonies  which  the 
lyrist  developed  anciently,  and  which  a  genuine  Greek 
genius  might  still  do  to  a  certain  extent,  in  spite  of  the 
rhyme,  which  belongs  to  modern  Romaic  song,  and  in  spite 
of  the  accent,  which  probably  existed  alongside  of  quan- 
tity in  the  Greek  metrical  system  of  antiquity. 

We  see  an  internal  conflict  going  on  in  Greece  between 
the  old  and  the  new,  which  may  be  stated  as  the  conflict 
between  Europeanism  and  Hellenism.  The  moment  the 
Greek  becomes  educated,  he  becomes  European  and  is 
then  chiefly  imitation.  The  ancient  Hellenic  foundations 
are  still  lying  in  his  very  village,  but  he  does  not  think  of 
building  upon  them.  That  wonderful  development  of  the 
primordial  Greek  germ  into  Greek  Art,  Poetry,  Philoso- 
phy and  into  Greek  political  institutions,  is  not  taking 
place ;  the  educational  energies  of  its  people  are  absorbed 
in  acquiring  the  culture  of  Western  Europe.  I  do  not 
affirm  that  this  state  of  things  can  be  avoided,  nor  that  it 
is  even  to  be  regretted. 

But  in  spite  of  the  strong  tendency  to  the  new  civi- 
lization of  the  West,  there  is  a  mighty  conservative  influ- 
ence —  it  is  the  peasant,  who  still  seems  to  be  possessed 
of  the  instincts,  not  merely  of  his  Greek,  but  also  of  his 
Pelasgic  ancestors.  It  will  be  a  long  time  before  he  is 
fully  absorbed  into  the  stream ;  these  customs  of  his, 
driven  to  remote  districts  in  the  mountains  where  the 
brooks  are  always  fresh  and  clear,  will  remain  in  their 
prescribed  small  channels,  insignificant  yet  undefiled.  In 
such  places  lived  the  last  adherents  of  the  old  worship, 
the  pagans  so  called,  that  is,  the  rude  inhabitants  of  re- 
mote rural  cantons.  Indestructible  as  the  mountains 
which  protect  them,  seem  these  primitive  seeds  of  Aryan 
beliefs  and  customs.  Even  Semitic  Christianism  has 
hardly  been  able  to  do  more  than  gloss  them  over  in  their 
most  retired  strongholds.  The  ancient  sanctuary  of  some 
divinity  is  now  the  shrine  of  a  saint ;  the  ancient  festi- 
vals of  the  Gods  have  been  changed  to  holidays  of  the 
church ;  the  modern  chapel  is  often  built  upon  the  founda- 
tions of  an  old  temple;  thus  modern  Greece,  with  super- 
ficial mutations,  is  still  spiritually  ancient  Greece.  Our 


372  A    WALK  /2V  BELLAS. 

Arachoba,  lying  high  up  on  the  slope  of  Parnassus,  seems 
to  have  suffered  the  least  alteration ;  it  is  an  ever  fresh 
well-head  of  antiquity  gushing  forth  on  the  side  of  the 
mountain.  Hence  to  me  it  signifies  the  title  already 
given :  the  modern  center  of  ancient  Hellenism. 

Such  are  the  twin  worlds,  the  Old  and  the  New,  which 
the  traveler  will  find  at  Arachoba,  different,  yet  for  the 
most  part  in  perfect  unison.  Both  he  will  dwell  in 
joyously,  and  be  attuned  to  both ;  indeed  the  marvel  is 
that  he  cannot  live  in  the  one  without  living  at  the  same 
time  in  the  other.  Here  is  the  present  with  its  throbbing 
life,  full  of  healthy  energy,  limpid  as  a  Parnassian  brook. 
Yet  it  is  of  the  aforetime,  it  has  its  source  in  the  old 
fabled  age,  in  the  poetic  world  even  before  Homer.  This 
feeling  of  twofoldness  is  given  out  of  every  thing  here 
spontaneously,  and  with  scarce  a  note  of  discord.  The 
Old  in  the  New  we  have  noticed  all  along  our  pathway, 
sometimes  with  effort  possibly ;  but  now  the  one  is  the 
other,  blent  together  in  imagination  and  in  feeling,  not 
showing  except  by  rigid  search  even  a  faint  line  of  separa- 
tion. Vision  also  begins  to  be  double,  as  man  himself  is 
twofold,  yet  in  harmony.  If  the  view  turns  to  an  object 
of  Nature,  one  instinctively  sees  what  it  hints ;  if  it  be 
some  spiritual  thing,  it  takes  on  of  itself  the  form  of 
Nature.  Yet  both  are  blended  into  a  perfect  unity,  any 
division  means  violent  tearing  asunder  of  living  members : 
meaning  and  form  are  one  organism.  The  eye  deepens 
into  the  spirit,  while  it  remains  eye,  yet  the  spirit  stays 
not  with  itself  and  broods  alone  over  its  unfathomable  self, 
but  seeks  the  eye  and  the  outer  world.  Vision  is  a  new 
thing  on  Parnassus,  with  a  new  virtue  —  once  it  sought 
but  appearances,  or  beheld  but  its  own  phantasms  ;  in  it 
now  the  outer  and  inner  meet  in  mutual  concord  and  with- 
out disparagement  to  either. 

To  this  double  vision  which  at  present  possesses  the 
soul,  there  will  be  added  the  third  element,  that  of  feeling. 
We  have  noticed  how  the  image  of  sense  has  always  the 
thought  underneath,  shooting  through  it  rays  of  light, 
filling  it  with  meaning ;  to  these  two,  thought  and  image, 
will  be  joined  the  emotion,  which  makes  both  quiver  like 


THE    TWO    WORLDS   OF  PARNASSUS.          373 

heart  pressed  to  heart.  Be  it  jo}*,  or  be  it  sorrow,  it 
completes  the  man,  making  him  musical  too,  because  en- 
tire. Such  is  the  trilogy  of  poetry:  a  thought,  an 
image,  a  feeling,  all  distinct  to  a  degree,  yet  all  in  one, 
and  saying  the  same  thing.  But  now  the  trilogy  of  poetry 
is  realized,  it  becomes  the  trilogy  of  existence. 

In  such  manner  the  Parnassian  life  rises  to  a  universal 
significance.  Two  worlds  should  every  human  being 
possess  in  his  own  right,  very  diverse  yet  harmoniously 
interwoven  at  every  needle-point.  The  one  is  that  of 
common  life,  of  prose,  of  practical  activity  —  a  necessary 
sphere,  which  makes  itself  felt  by  its  very  gravity.  But 
the  other  is  the  ideal  realm,  which  brings  a  solution  to 
the  conflicts  of  real  life  and  takes  away  its  grossness. 
Also  it  gives  us  the  breath  of  freedom  once  more,  freedom 
from  the  restraints,  ceremonies,  and  conventionalities  of 
ordinary  existence.  Poetry  is  indeed  the  world  of  free- 
dom, it  must  break  loose  somewhere  from  the  serfdom  of 
prosaic  life.  Its  wildness,  its  audacity,  often  its  wicked- 
ness is  but  the  protest  of  freedom,  the  desperate  single- 
handed  sally  of  the  ideal  soul  against  a  universe  of  be- 
leaguering Prose. 

Truly  unhappy  is  the  man  who  has  not  two  worlds. 
Let  him  flee,  if  need  be,  to  an  idyllic  life,  and  there  build 
anew  some  refuge  for  the  straightened  heart.  Such  is 
one  remedy,  old  as  poetry,  yet  very  insufficient  for  our 
modern  time.  Let  him  flee  to  Religion,  also  an  ideal 
world,  and  for  many  good  natures  an  efficacious  remedy. 
Religion,  however,  has  the  tendency  to  throw  its  paradise 
into  the  past,  and  its  heaven  into  the  future ;  its  ideal 
world  always  has  been,  or  will  be,  never  is.  Strangely 
neglectful  of  the  eternal  Now  is  Religion  inclined  to  be ; 
it  would  be  all-efficacious,  could  it  fill  itself  with  an  ever- 
lasting Real  Presence  of  the  Divine.  You  and  I  must 
have  our  Ideal  World  now,  if  ever ;  this  very  moment 
must  be  raised  out  of  Time  into  Eternity ;  and  we  say 
with  grim  desperation  to  our  puzzled  Priest  who  would 
fain  give  us  help :  We  sigh  not  for  the  Past,  we  seek  not 
for  the  Future  —  Now  or  Never  is  ours,  by  the  Gods ! 

Thus  our  Ideal  World  makes  man  eternal,  eternally 


374  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

young ;  already  we  have  noticed  the  buoyant  youthfulness 
of  old  age  on  these  Parnassian  slopes.  The  spirit  remains 
as  fresh  as  the  dew  of  the  morning,  being  tilled  with  an 
eternal  Now.  Ideally  there  is  no  growing  old,  spring- 
time endures  forever.  Bad  enough  is  it  to  see  an  old  man 
old,  yet  it  is  tenfold  worse  to  see  a  young  man  old,  as  is 
so  often  the  case  in  these  wearing  days.  But  to  preserve 
youth  is  not  the  prime  object  of  the  longing  soul ;  youth 
is  only  the  fresh  ruddy  image  of  endless  duration,  free 
from  the  cadaverous  paleness  of  Time.  To  live  truly  the 
Now  is  not  merely  the  prophecy,  but  the  fulfillment  of 
immortality.  Lift  up  this  temporal  moment  into  the  Ideal 
World  and  hold  it  there,  and  you  have  not  simply  proven, 
you  have  realized  the  life  immortal:  such  is  indeed  its 
only  proof.  Solvitur  vivendo. 

Of  all  the  bards  who  have  said  their  sacred  word  to  the 
human  race,  old  Homer  has  the  readiest  faith  in  an  Ideal 
World ;  he  dwells  in  it,  sports  with  it,  is  in  earnest  with 
it,  smiles  and  weeps  in  it ;  the  truth  is,  he  cannot  stay 
out  of  it  but  with  an  effort.  The  terrestrial  struggle  on 
the  plains  of  Troy  he  wearies  of,  and  must  take  his  flight 
to  Olympus ;  or  if  the  case  is  desperate,  he  brings  his 
Gods  down  into  the  combat  among  men.  Two  worlds  he 
has,  the  Earthly  or  lower  one,  and  the  Olympian  or  upper 
one,  intermingling,  reflecting  one  another;  such  is  the 
book  he  has  transmitted,  such  assuredly  was  his  life.  He 
cannot  tread  on  the  ground  without  touching  the  heavens  ; 
all  Nature  becomes  in  him  a  divine  reflection  ;  even  the 
acts  of  men,  the  products  of  human  agency,  belong  not  to 
this  reality,  but  are  terrestrial  images  stamped  with  the 
Gods.  More  than  any  other  poet  does  he  live  in  intimacy 
with  the  Ideal  World ;  such,  too,  is  his  supreme  lesson : 
he  teaches  us  to  lift  our  existence  into  an  ideal  realm,  just 
as  he  elevates  the  struggles  of  men  below  into  Olympus. 

Thus  sang  the  old  bard,  giving  us  to-day  his  divine 
nourishment,  showing  the  two  worlds  of  man,  as  none 
other  since  has  done.  But  it  is  said,  this  scheme  belongs 
not  to  us,  our  modern  life  is  practical,  material,  that  is 
the  end  of  it.  Still  even  we  must  be  fed  through  the  Un- 
seen, through  what  is  above  us,  which  after  all  is  some 


THE    TWO   WORLDS   OF  PARNASSUS,          375 

form  of  that  Homeric  Upper  World.  Not  an  easy  under- 
taking will  it  be  to  transform  turbid  roaring  Mississippi 
into  a  clear  Greek  stream  ;  a  little  pellucid  Greek  brook 
purling  down  the  side  of  Parnassus  it  will  never  be. 
But  even  the  Mississippi  has  something  more  than  its  ter- 
restrial stream ;  through  upper  regions  it  must  in  some 
way  flow  back  to  its  fountain  head,  else  it  would  never 
flow  below ;  that  ideal  current  above  is  necessary  to  it 
also,  according  to  the  declaration  of  science  herself.  Even 
its  vast  waters  would  flow  out,  and  the  river  run  dry, 
were  it  not  replenished  from  heavenly  sources,  from  its 
ideal  counterpart  in  the  clouds,  sending  down  its  terres- 
trial stream. 

Fabulous,  too,  that  old  Homeric  world  is  called,  a  mere 
fiction  spun  from  the  imagination  of  the  Poet.  Fabulous 
it  must  be  granted  to  be,  and  this  is  just  its  enduring 
value.  Fable  is  truer  than  History ;  Fable  is  a  Whole, 
including  both  the  Upper  and  Lower  Worlds  ;  History  is 
but  a  Half,  embracing  only  the  Lower  one,  and  mostly 
but  a  fragment  of  that.  Still  to  the  prosaic  Understand- 
ing how  does  it  sound  to  say  that  Fable  is  truer  than  His- 
tory? Quite  the  same  as  if  one  should  declare  that  a  lie 
is  truer  than  the  truth.  Yet  the  realm  of  Truth  is  the 
Upper  World,  where  it  is  reached  by  the  Mythus ;  while 
below  is  the  realm  of  the  Senses,  not  to  be  despised  I 
say,  but  whose  whole  end  and  purpose  is  to  be  stamped 
with  the  beautiful  impress  of  what  is  above. 

It  is  said  that  the  Olympians  have  become  the  sport  of 
the  ages,  mere  playthings  which  amuse  the  children  of 
leisure,  toys  not  to  be  seriously  regarded  by  the  busy, 
earnest  man.  Such  is  the  prosaic  view  of  the  old  Gods  ; 
and  indeed  they  have  this  side  of  sportfulness,  which 
indicates  the  joyous  serenity  of  their  existence.  But  in 
their  sport  they  image  the  Divine,  with  ease  and  joy  they 
are  the  highest ;  in  their  play  they  are  most  earnest ;  in 
the  world  they  are  masters  of  the  world,  its  Gods. 

But  on  Parnassus  one  will  not  seek  to  be  a  philoso- 
pher ;  causes  and  consequences  are  not  his  pursuit.  He 
feels  the  unity  of  the  within  and  the  without,  he  will  not 
separate  them  in  reflection.  There  is  such  a  happy  bal- 


376  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

ance  between  heaven  and  earth,  between  Nature  and 
Spirit,  that  he  cannot  disturb  it ;  evil,  indeed  all  deep 
disruption  of  soul  has  fled  from  the  world.  In  this  happy 
balance  one  will  keep ;  no  more  pain,  no  more  sin,  no 
more  philosophy,  no  more  self-trituration  of  any  kind. 
The  senses  and  the  soul  rest  in  fond  embrace ;  nought  is 
there  but  harmony,  that  harmony  between  the  inner  and 
outer  world  called  joy ;  man's  existence  is  one  of  its 
delicious  notes  slowly  dying  away  like  sweet  music  in  the 
distance. 

Still  you  must  not  think  that  there  are  no  jarring  con- 
trasts in  the  life  here ;  but  even  harsh  discords  are 
strangely  resolved  into  harmony.  Here  comes  the  fool 
who  will  be  found  on  Parnassus  as  elsewhere  in  the 
world.  I  meet  him  going  into  the  Olives,  for  he  too 
gathers  the  fruit  and  presses  out  the  stores  of  oil.  He 
talks  to  himself,  as  he  trips  along ;  nobody  pays  any  at- 
tention to  him.  He  often  bursts  out  into  a  heart}^  laugh 
among  the  Olives,  such  is  the  helpless  joy  of  the  fool. 
His  existence  is  all  to  himself,  but  it  is  a  merry  one,  a 
Parnassian  one,  though  a  fool's.  He  cannot  share  with 
others  his  delight,  he  is  cut  off  from  mankind  by  un- 
reason, for  it  is  reason  alone  which  unites  man  to  man, 
and  makes  each  a  participant  of  the  other's  life  ;  but  this 
fool  has  his  own  world,  impenetrable,  closed  by  triple 
walls  of  adamant.  Still  he  laughs  and  talks  and  is  merry, 
so  much  we  see ;  but  we  cannot  share  his  soul,  or  com- 
prehend it,  hence  he  is  a  fool  —  a  miscarried  human 
spirit,  though  it  still  strangely  preserves  its  Parnassian 
birth-right  of  joy,  when  reason  has  sunk  out  of  its  being. 

Passing  up  from  the  fountain  where  the  bare  nymphs 
seem  to  be  sporting  round  the  banks  of  the  stream  or 
wading  mid  its  pellucid  waters,  you  will  be  thinking  of 
ancient  statuary  and  its  significance,  which  now  begins  to 
be  felt  in  your  existence.  In  some  quiet  nook  you  will 
meet  Praxiteles,  the  sculptor,  and  you  will  eagerly  in- 
quire :  How  comes  it,  O  Praxiteles,  that  thou  hast  made 
so  many  naked  figures ;  therein  I  cannot  fully  reconcile 
myself  to  thy  artistic  endeavor.  Was  there  any  modesty, 
any  morality  in  those  old  ages  ?  Was  there  any  religion  ? 


THE   TWO    WORLDS   OF  PARNASSUS.          377 

For  I  confess,  the  nude  nymph  or  the  nude  goddess  is  to 
me  not  altogether  a  holy  object.  Nor  can  I  yet  feel  my- 
self in  harmony  with  the  old  games  and  gymnastic  exer- 
cises revealing  the  tindraped  forms  of  contestants ;  and 
I  have  noticed  often  that  the  Greek,  civilized  but  naked, 
contrasts  himself  proudly  with  the  barbarian,  uncivilized 
but  clothed. 

Whereat  the  old  Artist  answered  tartly,  with  words 
echoing  through  the  Olives :  O  thou  religious  man,  thy 
deity  made  thy  body,  thy  tailor  made  thy  clothes  ;  whose 
handiwork  is  the  worthier,  more  beautiful,  more  to  be 
revered,  thy  tailor's  or  thy  God's?  Thou  would' st  hide 
the  divine  work  for  shame ;  bettor  it  were  to  hide  thy 
clothes,  if  thou  art  truly  modest,  as  innocence  is  modest. 
The  body  is  immoral,  thou  sayest ;  why  dost  thou  carry 
it  with  thee  all  the  time,  cloaking  thy  immorality  under 
garments,  O  self-confessed  hypocrite?  Abolish  thy 
body  as  vice,  like  an  honest  man  acting  from  conviction ; 
then  thou  wilt  find  the  outcome  of  thy  morality  to  be 
self-destruction ;  man,  to  be  good,  must  not  be  at  all. 
O  prudish,  prurient  soul,  what  has  thy  world  gained  by 
its  iig-leaf  but  innumerable  milliners'  and  tailors'  bills? 

But  we  Greeks,  —  continued  he  with  voice  melodiously 
growing  tender  —  love  the  sweet  body,  such  as  Nature 
made  and  Art  perfected  ;  we  rejoice  to  see  it  trained  to 
all  its  capabilities,  to  behold  it  masterful  in  all  move- 
ments —  in  the  race,  in  the  palaestra,  in  the  battle.  We 
like  to  see  its  deed  elevated  to  ideal  perfection  and  made 
eternal  in  marble ;  then  it  is  the  supreme  of  created 
tilings,  is  an  everlasting  triumph  over  matter  ;  it  is  truly 
the  manifestation  of  the  Godlike  upon^earth  to  the  vision 
of  men.  Such'is  its  highest  power :  a  continual  utterance 
of  triumph  over  all  obstacles  —  a  God. 

It  is  not  probable  that  any  one  of  us  will  become  as 
good  a  Greek  as  Praxiteles  ;  nor  is  it  necessary.  Still  we 
may  throw  ourselves  back  into  his  view,  and  live  with  it 
sympathetically.  Manifestly  he  does  not  employ  the 
sensuous  body  for  its  own  sake,  but  for  the  purpose  of 
expressing  the  Divine.  He  scorns  to  use  it  merely  for 
tickling  pleasure,  but  through  it  he  will  reach  the  soul. 


378  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

The  nude  shape  he  chisels  out  of  the  rock  but  transfigures 
it  into  a  God.  He  has  two  worlds,  like  Homer,  the  Up- 
per and  Lower ;  the  statue  stands  below,  but  its  spirit 
is  above ;  to  the  Lower  World  belongs  the  naked  figure 
which  the  gross  eye  beholds,  but  to  true  vision  it  rises 
transformed  to  the  Upper  World,  whither  it  carries  the 
beholder  who  therein  becomes  a  worshiper.  Thus  the 
old  sculptor,  like  Homer,  helps  us  elevate  our  existence 
into  an  ideal  realm,  through  the  images  of  the  Gods. 

The  faculty  of  double  vision  is  the  best,  indeed  the  only 
true  Parnassian  gift ;  it  beholds  in  the  appearance  what  is 
substance  ;  without  doing  violence  to  Nature  it  transmutes 
her  into  Spirit;  in  the  new  it  feels  the  soul  of  the  old. 
Such  is  the  discipline  of  the  traveler  at  the  present  mo- 
ment, living  in  this  mountain  town  of  rural  Greece ;  he  is 
compelled  to  dwell  in  the  Two  Worlds,  and  to  find  his 
chief  delight  and  occupation  in  their  harmony.  This  re- 
lation between  the  upper  and  lower  realms  of  existence 
may  seem  a  mystery,  possibly  an  intentional  mystifica- 
tion ;  but  here  it  is  real,  in  fact  it  is  the  one  overmaster- 
ing reality.  It  may  be  unintelligible  to  hard-headed 
Prose ;  some  minds  seem  unable,  or  it  were  better  to  say, 
unwilling  to  penetrate  the  truth  of  the  matter.  But  to 
unfold  the  relation  and  harmony  between  the  Upper  and 
Lower  Worlds  has  been  in  one  way  or  other  the  attempt 
of  all  Literature  worthy  of  the  name.  To  speak  the  con- 
necting word  between  the  two  is  the  superhuman  struggle 
of  the  Poet ;  if  he  succeeds,  then  he  has  given  something 
to  his  race,  he  has  welded  together  the  mighty  dualism  of 
the  universe. 

But  the  Poet's  word  grows  dim  by  Time,  his  dialect  be- 
comes unfamiliar,  and  what  is  a  greater  hindrance,  his 
consciousness  passes  away  from  his  people.  His  gold 
therefore  must  be  burnished  anew,  in  fact  it  must  be  cast 
into  the  melting-pot,  and  coined  over  again  into  the  cur- 
rent coinage  of  the  period.  Hence  his  interpreter  arises 
with  a  clear  duty  ;  he  too  is  to  speak  the  connecting  word 
everywhere,  between  the  Old  and  the  New,  between  the 
old  Poet  and  the  new  Reader,  in  fine  between  the  Upper 
and  Lower  Worlds.  He  is  the  true  critic  in  Literature 


THE    TWO    WORLDS   OF  PAHNASSUS.          371) 

who  breaks  through  the  sensuous  form  and  unfolds  the 
spiritual  element  in  the  written  word  ;  he  is  the  true  Priest 
in  Religion  who  helps  us  transform  our  life  into  an  image 
of  the  Eternal  in  the  Temporal.  Both  are  interpreters 
and  have  a  common  realm :  to  show  this  outer  reality  to 
be  a  semblance  revealing  the  inner  spirit;  both  are  to 
speak  the  connecting  word  which  harmoniously  joins  the 
Lower  and  Upper  Worlds. 

But  upon  Parnassus  to-day  these  two  Worlds  lie  blended 
in  a  most  musical  feeling  of  unity.  The  one  is  so  easily 
the  other  that  we  need  no  Interpreter ;  the  third  person 
placing  himself  between  them  breaks  the  melody,  and  be- 
comes an  intruder.  There  is  the  feeling  of  immediate 
oneness  which  can  not  brook  the  dissection  of  thought ;  it 
is  that  of  a  supreme  work  of  art,  transparent,  raying  its 
soul  directly  into  the  soul.  Nor  shall  we  allow  any  further 
intrusion  into  this  intimate  union,  or  any  disturbance  of 
this  happy  harmony,  into  which  the  twofolduess  of  man  is 
melodiously  transfigured,  of  which  he  longs  to  share  as  of 
his  divine  essence,  and  to  which  he  seeks  to  elevate  him- 
self by  many  ways — by  ecstasy,  by  poetic  vision,  by 
worship,  by  thought. 


XVII.   POLITICAL  PARNASSUS. 

Arachoba  is  just  now  in  the  midst  of  a  hot  political 
contest  over  the  election  of  Demai'ch.  True  to  their 
ancient  instincts,  the  Greeks  of  opposing  political  parties 
cannot  live  together  without  fighting  one  another ;  in  fact 
if  there  were  no  supreme  authority  outside  of  the  town, 
I  believe  that  the  successful  party  would  banish  the  un- 
successful one,  and  confiscate  the  property  of  its  mem- 
bers. But  each  community  is  not  autonomous  now  as  of 
old ;  there  is  a  central  power  of  the  State  which  keeps  it  in 
restraint.  Jn  no  respect  does  the  ancient  political  chara- 
acter  of  the  Greek  manifest  itself  more  plainly  than  in 
these  elections ;  the  possibilities  of  those  terrible  massa- 


380  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

cres  at  Kerkyra  and  Argos  are  felt  still ;  indeed,  Ara- 
choba  furnishes  at  present  many  an  excellent  comment  on 
Thucydides. 

It  was  Sunday,  and  your  traveler  was  sitting  by  the 
fire  engaged  in  conversation  about  distant  things,  when 
an  acquaintance  rushed  in  breathless  and  announced  that 
a  fight  had  occurred  on  the  market-place,  confessed  that 
his  party  had  been  driven  off  and  compelled  to  take  to 
their  houses,  and  that  he  himself  was  one  of  the  fugitives. 
I  hurried  out  to  see  this  new  phase  of  Greek  affairs,  and 
was  passing  down  to  the  market  place,  when  a  man  or- 
dered me  and  all  others  to  leave  the  street  and  go  home. 
Loukas,  who  met  me,  said  that  it  was  the  Superior 
Judge,  that  he  had  the  right  to  give  such  commands  and 
that  we  must  obey.  There  was  still  wild  excitement,  men 
were  talking  violently,  women  were  rushing  anxiously 
through  the  crowd  looking  for  their  husbands ;  imperfect 
obedience  was  rendered  to  the  Judge  on  the  part  of  all, 
myself  included.  But  the  fighting  was  over  for  that 
day,  and  the  campaign  had  fairly  opened  in  its  first  con- 
test. 

These  struggles  usually  take  place  on  Sunday  after 
church.  Jt  is  curious  to  observe  persons  uniting  in  the 
same  worship,  performing  the  same  genuflections,  mak- 
ing the  same  crosses  over  breast  and  forehead,  and  sing- 
ing the  service  in  the  same  dreary  whine  through  the 
nose,  and  then  an  hour  afterwards  to  see  these  very  same 
persons  trying  to  mash  one  another's  noses  as  if  not  whin- 
ing enough  already. 

The  peasants  are  all  collected  in  the  village  on  Sun- 
day, for  there  are  no  dwellings  in  the  country  ;  thus  they 
are  open  to  the  fermentation  of  contact  and  to  mutual 
friction.  We  think  again  of  old  Greek  Aristotle,  who  de- 
fines man  to  be  a  political  animal ;  such  is  still  the  mod- 
ern Greek  —  particularly  the  animal.  But  assuredly  his 
American  brother  will  not  be  able  to  cast  a  stone  at  him, 
without  the  same  stone's  coming  back  and  inflicting  a 
greater  bruise  upon  himself. 

These  fights  I  heard  humorously  termed  agones  Olumpi- 
koi  —  Olympic  contests.  There  was  no  little  pride  in 


POLITICAL    PARNASSUS.  381 

them  as  exhibitions  of  prowess.  The  palicari  is  still  un- 
willing to  let  his  principle  rest  inactive  without  giving  a 
blow  for  it ;  indeed  he  sometimes  likes  to  give  the  blow 
without  any  principle.  So,  it  is  said,  the  old  Greeks  did 
at  Olympia,  they  fought  one  another  for  mere  sport ;  the 
same  is  true  of  us  modern  Greeks  ;  we  like  to  fight  so  well 
that,  when  we  cannot  get  a  chance  at  the  Turk,  we  take  a 
bout  at  one  another. 

The  great  issue  at  present  is,  then,  who  shall  be  the 
next  Demarch?  The  opposing  parties  have  set  up  two 
candidates,  whose  magnificent  names  are,  Pappayohan- 
nes  and  Pappakosta.  The  principle  at  stake  is  not  at  all 
easy  to  fathom ;  it  has  a  very  remote  connection  with 
national  politics  ;  a  little  closer  bond  it  has  with  some  lo- 
cal issues  —  a  clean  market-place  and  clean  streets  were 
two  of  the  things  which  were  sometimes  mentioned,  and 
which  predisposed  the  impartial  stranger  somewhat  in 
favor  of  the  party  out  of  power.  But  the  vital  governing 
principle  seems  to  lie  in  the  fact,  that  the  Demarch  con- 
trols the  appointments  to  about  twenty  little  offices  in  his 
district.  Pappayohannes  is  the  present  incumbent  and 
candidate  for  re-election,  of  course ;  he  has  been  com- 
pelled to  set  aside  one  hundred  and  twenty  applicants,  all 
of  whom  are  now  violent  supporters  of  his  opponent  Pap- 
pakosta. 

The  wineshop,  where  the  traveler  will  loiter  among  the 
people,  blazes  up  in  the  hottest  political  discussion. 
There  I  meet  Odysseus,  that  is  Ulysses  —  a  middle-aged 
bachelor,  who  has  never  found  his  Penelope,  he  sa3rs.  A 
satirical  rogue,  at  no  moment  wanting  in  banter  which  is 
tipped  with  a  sarcastic  sting ;  he  has  therewith  a  kind  of 
squint-ej'ed  chuckle ;  full  of  curiosity  he  is,  too,  about 
other  nations.  I  seldom  fail  to  find  him  in  the  wineshop, 
where  he  and  I  have  formed  a  decided  attachment. 
Whenever  any  thing  of  a  new  or  exciting  character  oc- 
curs, Odysseus  is  always  at  my  side  with  the  question : 
Einai  tetoia  eis  ten  patrida  sas  ?  Are  there  such  things 
in  your  country? — Thus  the  study  of  Comparative 
Politics,  especially  the  Politics  of  Greece  and  America, 
seems  just  now  to  be  his  delight. 


•382  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

A  loud  supporter  of  Pappakosta  enters,  who  had  been 
an  equally  loud  supporter  of  Pappayohannes  at  the  last 
election.  But  he  has  changed  sides ;  it  is  whispered  that 
Pappayohannes  failed  to  give  him  the  position  of  Kerux 
or  Town  Crier,  after  having  promised  to  do  so.  Now  it 
is  declared  that  Pappakosta  will  give  him  the  appointment, 
and  that  the  wily  office-seeker  this  time  has  extorted  the 
promise  in  writing.  But  it  is  wonderful  how  keen  is  the 
vision  of  this  man  toward  the  shortcomings  of  the  present 
administration.  Says  he :  Look  at  our  filthy  streets,  a 
donkey  can  hardly  get  through  them  in  muddy  weather ; 
incompetent  officials  burden  the  town  ;  the  public  revenue 
is  squandered ;  we  have  no  road  with  the  rest  of  the 
world.  Elect  Pappakosta  and  all  these  things  will  be 
rectified ;  'then  we  shall  have  clean  streets,  paved  roads, 
honest  and  capable  officials.  Hurrah  for  Pappakosta !  - 
But  you  have  changed  ;  how  is  that?  — Yes,  he  replied,  I 
have  changed.  As  for  that  traitor  and  demagogue,  Pap- 
payohannes, I  elected  him  once,  but  he  has  turned  out  so 
badly  that  I  am  compelled  to  go  against  him  this  time  ;  the 
public  welfare  demands  it.  —  Such  was  the  disappointed 
place-seeker  at  Arachoba,  whose  words  seemed  to  have 
a  familiar  note,  but  were  followed  by  sharp  contradiction 
from  friends  of  the  incumbent,  and  the  wineshop  re- 
sounded with  angry  disputation.  In  the  meantime 
Odysseus  appeared  at  my  elbow  and  asked  with  squint- 
eyed  leer:  Have  you  such  things  in  your  country?  — 
What,  men  who  change  for  an  office?  —  Yes,  Odysseus; 
there  are  such  things  in  my  country. 

The  women,  though  they  have  no  vote,  play  a  peculiar 
and  important  part  in  the  canvass  ;  they  rush  in  and  drag 
out  their  husbands  when  engaged  in  the  combat.  Herein 
they  show  a  courage  and  strength  which  astonishes  the 
stranger  and  makes  him  at  first  believe  them  to  be  angels 
of  peace  and  mercy.  Yet  the  women  are  the  most  vio- 
lent politicians  in  Arachoba,  as  they  are  elsewhere  in  the 
world  ;  they  break  off  friendly  relations  with  the  neighbors 
of  the  opposite  party ;  savage  altercation  between  them 
takes  place  on  the  street,  and  at  the  pool,  where  many 
come  together  on  washing-day,  they  fight  and  fight  des- 


POLITICAL    PARNASSUS.  383 

perately,  all  for  those  glorious  names,  Pappayohannes 
and  Pappakosta.  White  Parnassian  robes  become  soiled 
in  the  dirt,  soft  blue  eyes  change  to  balls  of  shooting 
flame  ;  golden-glancing  tresses,  reminding  the  traveler  of 
fair-haired  Helen,  become  sadly  disheveled  or  are  plucked 
out  by  handfuls  and  strown  over  the  ground.  Still,  they 
will  not  allow  their  husbands  and  brothers  to  fight ;  if 
there  is  any  fighting  to  be  done,  they  are  going  to  do  it 
themselves. 

The  second  Sunday  the  party  of  Pappayohannes,  which 
had  been  defeated  on  the  previous  Sunday,  determined 
not  to  be  left  in  the  lurch  again,  but  to  take  every  pre- 
caution for  winning  the  day.  Accordingly,  just  after 
church,  the  agora  and  the  street  which  leads  to  it  were 
filled  with  his  partisans,  who  there  surged  to  and  fro, 
yelling  for  their  candidate  and  defying  Pappakosta. 
The  house  of  the  Demarch  is  on  this  street,  and  after 
many  calls  he  appeared  at  a  window,  and  made  a  speech 
in  which  he  counseled  peace  and  good  order,  with  the 
advice  that  they  retire  to  their  homes.  The  crowd  an- 
swered with  approving  yells,  but  with  still  greater  disorder ; 
it  refused  to  disperse,  but  continued  to  vociferate  and 
call  for  another  speech  from  Pappayohannes.  A  second 
time  he  came  to  the  window  and  Counseled  them  all  to  go 
home  and  keep  the  peace.  Bravo,  hurrah  for  Pappayo- 
hannes, our  next  Demarch,  they  all  shouted  unanimously, 
but  failed  to  stir  from  the  spot,  or  to  check  in  the  least 
the  unruly  Greek  member. 

Bosh,  said  one  of  the  opposite  party  standing  at  my 
side,  this  advice  is  mere  sham ;  Pappayohannes  himself  is 
stirring  up  all  the  confusion  through  his  strikers  and 
secret  agents.^  See  that  tall  fellow  yonder  gesticulating 
in  the  midst  of  the  crowd,  I  know  him  to  be  a  paid  par- 
tisan. 

It  is  certain  that  the  multitude  kept  increasing  rather 
than  diminishing,  and  kept  growing  louder,  instead  of 
getting  quiet  in  accordance  with  the  counsel  of  the  De- 
march.  Nor  did  the  Judge  appear,  as  on  the  former  oc- 
casion, and  order  the  people  home.  The  narrow  street 
presented  a  variegated  appearance ;  it  was  full  of  fusta- 


384  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

nellas  and  fezes,  waves  of  white  with  crests  of  red.  Old 
balconies  hung  over  the  street  from  the  second  story  ; 
these  were  filled  with  spectators.  Outside  the  crowd, 
from  the  end  of  each  alley  converging  into  the  market- 
place, women  looked  on,  not  without  anxiety,  ready  to 
play  their  part  in  the  approaching  conflict.  Thus  the 
multitude  surged  and  roared  and  hissed,  calling  for  an- 
other speech  and  more  advice  from  Pappayohannes.  A 
man  from  the  crowd  touched  my  elbow ;  it  was  Odysseus 
with  his  satirical  leer,  and  with  insatiable  thirst  for  a 
knowledge  of  Comparative  Politics,  asking  me :  Echete 
tetoia  eis  ten  patrida  sas?  —  Have  you  such  things  in  your 
country?  —  Yes,  Odysseus,  there  are  such  things  in  my 
country. 

After  an  hour  or  so  the  adherents  of  Pappakosta  ap- 
peared in  force,  and  took  up  position  at  the  lower  end  of 
the  market-place.  They  built  a  narrow  platform  out  of 
tables  ;  on  this  platform  two  palicaris  mounted  and  sang 
a  song  celebrating  the  glories  of  their  candidate  Pappa- 
kosta ;  by  its  quality,  it  must  have  been  chiefly  extem- 
poraneous. They  whirled  and  yelled  and  sang,  accom- 
panied by  a  heavy  chorus  of  male  voices  massed  around 
their  platform ;  the  recinato,  too,  put  in  appearance,  and 
the  drinking  began.  Merry  Greeks  they  were,  and  al- 
ways growing  merrier ;  one  of  the  singers  potired  wine 
upon  the  head  of  the  other,  as  if  they  desired  to  be  soaked 
outside  as  well  as  inside.  This  was  indeed  a  sin  against 
Bacchus  —  a  profanation,  thus  to  waste  that  precious 
juice  of  Arachoba,  said  to  be  the  best  in  Greece.  The 
God  will  punish  you  to-day  for  your  contempt  of  his 
gift  —  such  is  the  prophecy  of  the  indignant  stranger. 

But  the  men  of  the  other  party  are  not  idle.  They 
erect  a  similar  stand  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  narrow 
street  in  front  of  a  wineshop,  where  they  go  through  with 
similar  extravagances.  The  song  in  praise  of  Pappakosta 
they  try  to  drown  with  cheers  for  Pappayohannes ;  then 
they  strike  up  a  lay  of  their  own ;  thus  the  Muses  still 
sing  in  rivalry  on  the  slope  of  Parnassus,  with  incessant 
burden  of  these  two  far-sounding  names,  Pappaj'ohannes, 
Pappakosta,  Pappayohannes,  Pappakosta.  In  this  way 


POLITICAL    PAENASSUS.  385 

the  singers  pass  the  time,  under  the  inspiration  of  the 
Sisters  and  the  Wine  God,  dancing  on  the  table,  rhapso- 
dizing in  rude  verse,  with  good  humor  on  the  surface  at 
least  —  an  incessant  bubbling  from  boundless  seas  of 
wild  whimsicality.  Nor  must  we  forget  the  peaceful 
note ;  a  shepherd  has  his  pipe  and  seems  to  be  lulling 
himself  with  its  soft  sounds  amid  all  the  din  ;  with  admi- 
ration I  looked  at  him  sitting  there  in  the  sunshine  not  far 
from  the  platform,  enticing  pastoral  notes  from  his  reed, 
and  wholly  absorbed  in  its  simple  tones,  without  paying 
any  attention  to  the  noise  around  him.  He  seemed  to  be 
dreaming  that  he  was  alone  with  his  flock  on  the  sunny 
hills. 

Thus  the  traveler  lounges  about,  observing;  a  lively 
Greek  notices  him  among  the  crowd,  and  hands  him  a 
beaker  of  wine,  saying:  Here  is  to  the  success  of  Pap- 
payohannes.  But  another  rushes  up  with  a  cup  of  the 
same  precious  drops  and  invites :  Drink  with  me  to  the 
health  of  Pappakosta.  I  answered :  To  Hades  with  both  of 
your  Pappas,  I  don't  understand  your  politics  ;  but  I  will 
drink  both  your  cups  with  this  toast  —  Long  live  Hellas  ; 
and  I  wish  each  of  you  to  join  me.  They  did  so,  grasp- 
ing my  hand ;  they  were  good  Greeks,  remembering  that 
they  had  a  country  above  party,  if  only  reminded  of  the 
fact.  So  the  three  men  emptied  the  four  cups. 

Thus  for  several  hours  I  watched  the  human  waves 
there,  observing  the  endless  bubbles  rising  out  of  those 
capricious  waters,  and  then  bursting  into  vacuity.  At 
first  I  tried  to  count  them,  and  mark  them  carefully,  to 
see  if  they  had  some  law  of  their  own  ;  but  one  gets  tired 
of  bubbles  though  they  reflect  all  the  colors  of  the  rain- 
bow. It  was  a  wild  riot  of  fancies,  an  un weeded  garden 
of  luxuriant  oddities.  Finally  I  grew  weary  of  the  play, 
concluding  that  there  would  be  no  Olympic  contest  that 
day,  but  only  a  farcical  battle  of  animal  spirits.  I  started 
home,  but  scarcely  had  1  passed  into  an  upper  street, 
when  I  saw  the  group  of  women  who  stood  at  a  distance, 
looking  down  to  the  market-place  in  great  commotion, 
and  beginning  to  rush  for  the  scene  of  action.  No 
pleasing  sight  were  those  anxious  faces ;  mothers  and 

25 


38G  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

sisters  of  the  men  below  were  there,  but  mainly  wives 
with  little  children  clinging  to  their  skirts,  with  babes  at 
the  breast  and  yet  unborn.  A  cry  of  anguish  —  and  then 
a  mother  would  clasp  her  infants  and  hurry  off ;  it  was 
enough  to  curse  any  election. 

As  I  turned  around  and  looked  after  a  number  of  these 
women  darting  by,  there  was  the  following  view :  chairs 
were  flying  through  the  air,  tables  were  broken  into 
clubs,  stones  were  hurled  at  random,  and  some  forty  or 
fifty  neighbors  were  kicking,  gouging,  pounding  one 
another  with  mutual  zeal  and  edification.  The  Olympic 
contest  has  then  opened  at  last ;  I  hasten  toward  the 
spot,  but  the  narrow  street  which  leads  to  the  market- 
place is  choked  up  with  spectators,  and  there  is  no  Judge 
to  send  them  home.  Following  a  woman,  I  take  another 
way  far  around,  and  have  to  ascend  a  hill  to  reach  the 
place  of  combat.  But  here  comes  a  mass  of  men  and 
women  rushing  down  the  steep  descent,  with  stones  flying 
after  them,  and  shouting,  Run,  run  for  life.  I  retreated 
a  short  distance  with  them,  borne  by  the  torrent  I  might 
say,  but  I  am  afraid  that  it  was  a  clear  case  of  panic.  I 
soon  turned  about,  however,  no  enemy  pursuing,  and 
went  up  boldly  into  the  midst  of  the  fight  —  a  little  to  one 
side  perhaps. 

Stones  and  tiles  were  on  the  wing,  somewhat;  long 
knives  were  drawn  and  slashed  about,  wounding  only  the 
innocent  air,  as  far  as  I  saw ;  everybody  was  doing  ter- 
ribly, yet  nothing  terrible  was  done.  "Leave  here, 
leave  here,  O  stranger,"  said  one  excited  Greek  who 
came  rushing  up  to  me  with  a  stone  in  one  hand  and  a 
knife  in  the  other — which  words  of  his  were  not  intended 
as  threats,  but  only  as  a  friendly  admonition.  I  laughed 
at  him,  and  jested  at  his  excitement,  when  he  went  away 
to  meet  the  foe.  The  schoolmaster  also  warned  me,  beck- 
oning to  me  from  the  distant  window  of  a  wineshop,  the 
doors  of  which  were  locked  to  all  save  friends.  His  was 
the  defeated  party  to-day,  and  he  had  been  compelled  to 
take  to  cover.  But  it  was  manifest  that  there  was  no 
great  danger  to  anybody,  least  of  all  to  me.  Not  a  man 
there  would  touch  a  stranger,  I  knew;  a  stray  stone 


POLITICAL    PABNASSUti.  387 

might  not  be  so  considerate,  but  that  would  be  an  acci- 
dent. So  I  stayed  and  saw  the  struggle  ended,  for  it  is 
not  every  day  that  one  can  see  an  Olympic  contest  on 
the  soil  of  Greece  itself. 

Two  or  three  men  with  bloody  heads  are  led  off  by 
their  wives  or  friends ;  other  combatants  suddenly  disap- 
pear ;  one  palicari,  the  grand  protagonist  of  the  day,  with 
long  knife  drawn,  and  with  vengeance  in  his  look,  pur- 
sues the  last  retreating  foe  down  an  alley  out  of  sight;  the 
field  is  won,  victory  for  Pappayohannes.  The  enemies  had 
all  fled  to  their  homes  or  had  secreted  themselves ;  the  mar- 
ket-place was  in  the  possession  of  one  party,  with  hurrahs 
and  great  jollification.  Gunpowder,  which  had  hitherto 
kept  wholly  out  of  the  fight,  now  enters  merely  for  noise, 
an  old  blunderbuss  is  touched  off,  and  the  Parnassian 
dells  re-echo  with  detonations  which  must  have  put  all  the 
Muses  to  flight.  Again  the  crowd  shouts  for  a  speech 
from  the  victorious  Pappayohannes,  who  a  third  time 
comes  to  the  window,  counseling  peace,  and  good  order, 
and  less  noise.  Odysseus,  too,  was  there,  participating 
in  the  general  jubilation,  for  he  was  a  partisan  of  Pap- 
payohannes ;  with  a  squint-eyed  chuckle  he  twitched  my 
arm,  shouting :  Glorious  victory,  the  day  is  ours ;  have 
you  such  things  in  your  country?  —  Yes,  Odysseus, 
there  are  such  things  in  my  country. 

The  crowd  now  began  to  disperse,  it  was  getting  dark, 
the  combat  was  over  for  one  week,  and  quiet  rapidly  set- 
tled down  upon  the  market-place  with  the  rising  stars. 
The  result  of  the  battle,  as  I  learned,  was  about  as  fol- 
lows: three  or  four  gashes,  five  or  six  bruises,  .two  or 
three  hundred  cases  of  hoarseness.  One  irate  woman 
was  reported  to  have  thrown  from  her  door  or  balcony 
some  water  not  very  hot  upon  an  approaching  foe  ;  she 
took  this  way  of  defending  her  husband  and  her  party. 
All  accounts  agreed,  that  there  were  no  serious  wounds. 
The  most  painful  that  I  saw  was  inflicted  by  a  woman, 
who  summarily  led  off  a  full-grown  man  by  the  ear,  he 
in  the  mean  time  squirming  and  crying  with  bitter  tears. 
I  went  over  the  field  of  conflict  before  going  home  ;  the 
platform  had  disappeared,  shreds  of  fustanellas  and  torn 


388  A    WALK   IN  HELLAS. 

caps  lay  around;  but  "what  touched  my  heart  with  sor- 
row was  to  see  the  fragments  of  the  shepherd's  pipe,  the 
sweet  pipe  of  peace,  lying  there  on  the  stones  where  the 
shepherd  had  sat  not  long  before,  wooing  its  dulcet 
notes ;  the  shepherd  had  disappeared,  and  the  soft-tuned 
reed  had  manifestly  been  broken  in  the  mad  conflict  of 
the  day.  Such  was  the  outcome  of  the  idyllic  strain  on 
Parnassiis  to-day. 

As  I  was  going  to  my  quarters,  I  met  a  group  of  maid- 
ens dressed  in  their  white  garments  with  red  apron  and 
sash,  in  a  back  street  overlooking  the  market-place.  Evi- 
dently for  the  benefit  of  the  stranger,  they  began  a  sham 
fight  in  mockery  of  the  one  which  they  had  just  seen 
fought  by  the  men.  They  pretended  to  throw  stones  and 
to  strike  one  another,  shouting  and  leaping  about  with 
much  banter  and  sport.  It  went  off  very  well,  till  a  big 
girl  pushed  over  a  plucky  little  red  apron ;  down  fell  the 
snow-white  gown  into  the  dust  with  a  broad  sprawl, 
and  was  sadly  soiled,  quite  ready  for  the  wash  to-mor- 
row. The  knee  of  the  unfortunate  maiden  must  have 
been  slightly  bruised  too,  one  may  modestly  venture  to 
think,  by  the  way  she  rubbed  it.  But  plucky  little  Red- 
apron  was  soon  up  and  ready  for  an  aggressive  onset ;  this 
put  a  phase  of  earnestness  into  the  contest,  which  threat- 
ened to  bring  the  resemblance  into  complete  reality,  to 
elevate  the  counterfeit  into  the  genuine  article  itself. 
But  the  whole  matter  happily  went  no  further  than  loud 
mutual  volleys  of  words. 

At  this  juncture  a  man  with  a  long  venerable  beard 
came  along  —  one  of  the  elders  of  the  town  —  and  thus 
addressed  the  company:  Shame  on  you  Arachobites  and 
Arachobitzas !  How  will  you  appear  before  the  world  ! 
Do  you  not  see  that  there  is  a  stranger  here  who  is  going 
to  write  a  book  about  us,  and  scatter  our  names  over  the 
whole  earth?  He  is  a  scribe,  I  have  often  seen  him  taking 
notes  on  the  wayside  and  in  the  Olives ;  he  will  be  sure 
to  give  an  account  of  this  day  to  his  people ;  the  Franks 
will  think  that  we  are  still  barbarians,  no  better  than  the 
Turks.  How  will  the  treaty  of  Berlin  ever  be  fulfilled  if 
he  should  write  a  book  in  which  these  reports  about 


POLITICAL    PARNASSUS.  389 

Arachoba  are  published?     Let  us  now  behave  ourselves. 

At  this  time  the  news  of  the  Treaty  with  Berlin,  with 
all  its  hopes  and  new  problems  had  permeated  the  remotest 
corner  of  Greece,  and  stirred  the  heart  of  the  Greek 
people  to  its  very  bottom.  Even  the  unlettered  peasant 
rolled  the  strange  word  through  his  lips  awkwardly,  yet 
reverently,  as  if  it  were  a  prayer  that  would  bring  about 
the  unity  of  the  whole  Hellenic  race.  But  one  thing  I 
did  not  disturb  ;  I  left  the  old  man  with  all  his  exagger- 
ated notion  about  the  importance  of  my  book.  I  knew 
that  never  again  could  it  by  any  possibility  receive  such 
a  world-embracing  compliment. 

In  the  course  of  the  evening  I  visited  the  houses  of  the 
leaders  of  both  political  parties.  In  the  one  there  was 
joy  and  untold  effervescence ;  a  grand  reception  of  the 
victorious  heroes  of  the  day  was  held ;  they  continued  to 
drop  in,  till  a  large  company  of  men  were  assembled, 
talking,  gesticulating,  laughing,  with  many  an  anecdote  of 
the  triumphant  day,  and  with  many  a  taunt  over  the  de- 
feated foe.  It  was  a  veritable  war-dance  of  the  big 
chieftains ;  all  the  details  of  the  fight  were  fought  over 
again,  in  speech,  action  and  animated  gesture. 

The  climax  was  reached  when  the  hero  of  the  day  ap- 
peared—  the  grand  protagonist,  whom  we  saw  chasing 
the  last  man  from  the  field  of  battle.  Proudly  he  en- 
tered, still  bare-armed,  with  torn  'shirt  dangling  at  the 
sleeves,  but  triumphant,  with  the  laurels  of  victory  invis- 
ibly wreathing  his  brow.  He  was  greeted  as  he  came  in 
with  a  shout  of  triumph ;  he  began  to  describe  the  event, 
and  in  the  description  of  his  own  glories,  he  grew  so 
excited  that  he  again  drew  his  dagger  and  slashed  his 
enemies  by 'the  dozen,  skipping  about  the  room  till  he 
became  more  dangerous  to  his  friends  than  he  had  ever 
been  to  his  foes.  Odysseus,  too,  was  there,  jubilating, 
throwing  sarcasms  upon  the  beaten  party  amid  the  merry 
crowd ;  feeling  some  one  touch  my  elbow,  I  looked 
about  and  saw  those  inevitable  eyes  with  the  inevitable 
question :  Have  you  such  things  in  your  country  ?  —  Yes, 
O  Odysseus,  very  similar  things  we  have  in  our  country. 

Through  the   darkness  I   sought  my  way  to  another 


390  A    WALK  IN  HKLLAU. 

house  where  one  of  the  leaders  of  the  defeated  party 
lived,  with  whom  I  was  on  friendly  tenns.  Alas,  alas ! 
what  a  melancholy  change !  A  number  of  chieftains  were 
assembled  there  too,  but  they  sat  around  in  gloom  ;  there 
\vas  no  light  in  the  house  save  the  pale  flicker  sent  from 
the  coals  in  the  hearth,  which  made  the  white  costumes 
look  like  a  row  of  sheeted  ghosts.  Not  a  word  those  men 
uttered,  not  a  sign  of  life  they  gave,  but  sat  there  in  mon- 
umental silence.  I  wished  to  retire  at  once,  begging  par- 
don for  my  intrusion,  as  I  thought  that  I  was  the  cause  of 
all  this  reticence ;  but  I  was  detained  by  friendly  assur- 
ances that  there  was  no  intrusion  on  my  part,  nor  any 
secret  deliberation  on  their  part.  It  was  the  gravest, 
most  tomb-like  body  of  men  that  I  saw  in  Greece  —  a  very 
cemetery  in  the  night.  Where  now  is  the  Greek  joy  which 
once  swayed  so  gayly  Parnassus? 

Soon  from  one  of  those  sepulchral  shapes  a  voice  broke 
forth  into  bitter  speech ;  it  accused  some  of  its  party  of 
cowardice,  others  of  treason ;  reproaches  of  all  kinds  fol- 
lowed, with  that  most  insulting  taunt  of  being  no  true 
Palicari.  The  silent  chamber  of  what  seemed  white  mon- 
uments, was  at  once  filled  with  a  stunning  confusion  of 
voices  ;  each  pale  ghost  began  to  move  violently  in  every 
limb ;  re-crimination  pursued  crimination,  till  a  second 
Olympic  combat  appeared  imminent.  But  the  storm 
passed,  and  the  happy  Greek  temperament  broke  into 
sunshine  out  of  its  clouds,  at  the  suggestion  of  one  of  its 
leaders :  l '  Next  Sunday  we  shall  whip  them  ;  let  us  pre- 
pare now."  Hope  at  once  arched  the  sky  with  her  rain- 
bow, each  man  smote  his  thigh  vehemently,  with  a  shout 
of  applause,  and  they  all  adjourned  to  the  next  room  for 
consultation,  the  question  being,  How  shall  we  wallop 
our  neighbors  next  Sunday  after  going  to  church  with 
them,  and  take  care  not  to  get  walloped  ourselves? 

I  heard  citizens  repeatedly  express  their  disapproval 
of  these  disorders ;  the  Demarch  himself  implied  in  his 
speech,  you  will  recollect,  that  he  disapproved  of  them, 
when  he  advised  the  people  to  go  home.  As  already 
said,  political  enemies  charged  the  Demarch  with  being 
at  the  bottom  of  the  disturbance  ;  it  was  his  method  of 


POLITICAL    PARNASSUS.  391 

conducting  an  election,  they  declared.  What  stranger 
can  disentangle  the  truth?  The  real  cause,  however-,  lies 
deep  in  the  spirit  of  the  people ;  the  latter  are  proud  of 
their  prowess  and  love  of  fight.  True  Greeks  they  are, 
delighting  in  Olympic  contests,  and  determined  to  fight 
one  another,  if  they  can  not  fight  the  barbarian. 

But  this  is  not  the  end  of  the  conflict.  The  next  day, 
Monday,  is  washday;  early  in  the  morning  all  the 
fountains  of  Arachoba  are  surrounded  by  a  busy  multi- 
tude of  women,  and  by  huge  winrows  of  soiled  garments. 
The  white  file  continues  to  issue  from  evi-ry  alley  and 
by-path  of  the  town,  each  woman  bears  her  batlet  and 
tub,  often  too  a  kettle  for  boiling  the  clothes ;  thus  the 
squadrons  gather  with  stout  determined  tread,  and  evi- 
dently mean  business.  That  restless  Greek  tongue  can 
not,  of  course,  be  restrained  ;  usually  it  is  the  last  wed- 
ding or  the  last  betrothal  which  forms  the  staple  of  their 
talk,  often  with  tinges  of  gossip  more  malicious.  But 
to-day  the  new  topic  comes  up  first  —  the  approaching 
election,  and  above  all,  the  combat  of  yesterday. 

At  one  of  these  places  a  servant  belonging  to  the  house- 
hold of  a  leader  of  the  Pappakostites  met  a  woman  of  the 
faith  of  Pappayohannes,  who  was  exulting  in  the  victory 
of  the  preceding  day,  and  triumphed  defiantly  over  the 
bloody  heads  of  her  enemies.  This  was  too  much,  there 
followed  bitter  words  and  then  blows,  or  rather  a  tear- 
ing of  clothes  and  hair.  Other  women  ran  up  and  took 
sides,  and  the  combat  became  general.  One  wife  with  her 
distaff  stood  there  spinning  ;  this  distaff  is  a  long  stick, 
which  she  brought  down  heavily  upon  the  back  of  a  sister. 
This  sister  was  not  without  a  weapon  at  hand  ;  she  picked 
up  a  wet  garment  which  she  was  about  to  wring  out,  and 
flung  it  with  water  and  all  upon  her  opponent,  who  in  her 
turn,  the  distaff  now  being  broken,  raised  an  immense 
Homeric  stone  (such  as  not  two  men  of  this  generation 
could  lift),  but  she  did  not  throw  it,  and  indeed  was  un- 
able to  throw  it  straight,  but  hurled  a  mighty  epithet 
instead. 

The  combat  continued  to  become  more  intricate.  The 
large  bat  used  for  pounding  the  wash  was  raised  by  a  sturdy 


392  A    WALK  JiV  HELLAS. 

Amazonian  arm ;  this  caused  an  utter  flight  of  all  the 
enemy,  when  the  bat  fell  harmless  to  the  ground.  The 
combatants,  however,  returned  once  more,  they  punched 
one  another  a  little,  pulled  hair,  and  flung  wet  garments. 
But  the  distaff  was  the  favorite  weapon  on  Parnassus,  as 
the  broomstick  is  in  this  country  ;  still  the  war  was  mainly 
one  of  words,  all  spoken  in  holy  Greek,  right  under  the 
seat  of  the  sacred  Nine. 

Not  the  least  curious  to  the  spectator  will  be  the  names 
which  he  will  hear  interspersed  among  the  blows  of  the 
conflict.  Clytemnestra  fights  Penelope ;  the  latter  has 
still  her  ancient  distaff,  though  she  puts  it  to  a  use  un- 
known in  the  Odyssey  ;  Eupbrosyne,  that  joyful  name  of 
one  of  the  Graces,  you  will  see  engaged  in  the  unpoetical 
act  of  upsetting  the  washed  folds  of  one  of  her  sisters,  not 
a  Grace,  and  dragging  them  in  the  dust.  Look  now  at 
the  white-flowing  robes  of  the  Parnassian  chorus  which 
were  to  appear  next  Sunday ;  with  sorrow  one  beholds 
them,  changed  almost  to  weeds  of  mourning.  Eurydike 
is  here,  having  returned  from  ancient  Hades  to  modern 
Greece,  full  of  life,  a  beautiful  maiden,  blue-eyed,  golden- 
haired  still ;  nor  can  I,  beholding  her,  wonder  at  Orpheus, 
who  was  so  filled  with  the  desire  of  possessing  her  that  he 
descended  to  the  Lower  Regions  with  his  lyre,  and  sought 
by  music  to  restore  her  to  the  Upper  World.  Finally 
laughter-loving  Aphrodite  appears  on  the  battle-field,  not 
loving  the  laugh  to-day  but  stern  combat;  bare-footed 
even,  she  runs  along  the  stony  highway,  in  angry  pursuit 
of  another  Goddess,  whose  name  is  unknown,  but  whom 
we  may  call  Here  ;  thus  to-day  on  Parnassus  is  repeated 
that  ancient  Homeric  contest  which  was  once  kindled 
between  the  two  Goddesses  on  Olympus.  In  this  way, 
too,  the  old  still  manifests  itself  in  the  new. 

There  are  at  least  a  dozen  of  these  washing  places  in 
Arachoba ;  at  all  of  them  were  bickerings  on  that  Mon- 
day ;  at  several  of  them  were  scuffles,  at  one  a  pitched 
battle  —  bloodless,  but  not  hairless.  Sunday  has  to  be 
fought  over  again  ;  the  victory,  lost  by  the  men,  must  be 
redeemed  by  the  women  of  the  defeated  party.  But  the 
strange  thing  is,  that  the  women  will  rush  in  and  drag 


POLITICAL    PARNASSUS.  393 

their  husbands  and  brothers  out  of  the  struggle ;  so  we 
must  infer  that  if  there  is  any  fighting  to  be  done,  they 
are  going  to  do  it  themselves. 

Rumors  of  these  various  conflicts  at  the  pools,  soon  flew 
to  the  men  assembled  in  the  market-place ;  party  was 
forgotten,  and  loud  was  the  merriment  among  the  jolly 
Greeks.  Partisans  of  Pappayohannes  and  of  Pappakosta, 
who  were  trying  yesterday  to  crack  one  another's  skulls, 
adjourned  together  to  the  wineshop,  and  united  in  a 
universal  guffaw  over  the  Aristophnnic  battle  of  the 
women.  Mark  the  roll  of  names :  Plato  was  there  in 
baggy  breeches,  Plutarch  was  there  in  white  folds  and 
red  fez,  heroic  Achilles  was  present  —  indeed,  is  eternally 
present  in  Greece.  With  these  heathens  were  many 
saints  —  Athanasius,  Spiridion,  my  friend  Loukas  the 
Didaskali,  or  Saint  Luke;  emperors,  too,  lent  their  pres- 
ence, Basilius,  Constantinus.  But  the  true  monarch  of 
the  company  was  Odysseus,  an  inveterate  misogynist,  a 
man  who  had  never  found  his  Penelope,  and  who  had  a 
sort  of  crabbed  humor  in  consequence  of  his  failure  to 
find  her.  He  was  now  in  his  element,  and  began  acting 
the  feminine  conflict ;  he  grasped  my  staff  and  used  it  as 
the  distaff  in  the  fight ;  he  mocked  the  language  and  at- 
titude of  the  leading  female  combatants.  The  hilarity 
overflowed  the  wineshop  into  the  very  street  where  the 
passers  roared ;  the  threatened  tragedy  has  turned  not 
merely  into  a  comedy,  but  into  an  acted  comedy ;  to-day 
there  will  be  no  fight  in  Arachoba ;  the  political  collision 
has  received  a  comic  solution,  Pappayohannes  and  Pap- 
pakosta are  united  in  one  brotherhood  of  laughter.  Odys- 
seus is  the  victor,  the  grand  peace-maker ;  after  he  had 
exhausted  himself,  again  I  felt  his  touch  upon  my  elbow, 
I  saw  the  triumphant  but  squint-eyed  leer,  and  heard 
the  old  question:  Have  you  such  things  in  your  country? — 
No,  Odysseus,  we  have  not ;  the  world  possesses  but  one 
Odysseus,  and  he  is  in  Arachoba. 

Such  was  the  lively  whirl  of  local  politics  in  the  thrifty 
village  of  Arachoba ;  one  might  think  its  people  were  lost 
to  all  national  interest  in  the  narrow  circle  of  their  own 
neighborhood.  But  there  were  deeper  currents  which 


394  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

needed  only  a  good  opportunity  to  rise  to  the  surface. 
The  Greek  is  a  politician  still,  local  as  well  as  universal ; 
his  political  relations  start  with  the  little  affairs  of  his 
own  town ;  but  they  rise  in  natural  gradation  to  the  pro- 
foundest  and  most  abiding  struggle  in  History, —  that  be- 
tween the  East  and  the  West, —  whose  bearers  are  at 
present  the  Turk  and  the  Greek. 

While  I  was  at  Arachoba  word  came  that  the  Austrian 
and  German  embassadors  at  the  court  of  Greece,  with 
the  British  and  Italian  Secretaries  of  Legation,  would  pay 
a  visit  to  the  town.  These  gentlemen  were  making  a 
rapid  tour  of  inspection  through  the  inland  parts  of 
Greece,  combining  some  secret  business  probably,  with 
momentary  glances  at  the  antiquities  still  remaining,  and 
at  the  people.  They  had  arrived  at  Delphi  on  their  way 
back  to  Athens,  and  had  spent  there  some  hours  in  view- 
ing the  ruins  of  Delphic  magnificence.  Great  was  the 
expectation  and  curiosity  of  the  Arachobites  at  the  un- 
usual visit ;  yet  for  no  small  portion  of  the  citizens  it 
would  be  attended  with  one  decided  pang.  Pappayo- 
hannes,  as  Demarch  and  official  head  of  the  town,  would 
reap  the  honors  of  entertaining  such  high  guests.  As 
candidate  for  re-election  he  was  bound  to  make  the  re- 
ception a  brilliant  affair. 

On  the  evening  before  their  arrival  the  shrill-voiced 
herald,  like  that  one  of  Agamemnon,  was  heard  going 
round  the  town  announcing  the  great  event  to  take  place 
on  the  morrow,  with  the  request  that  the  Arachobites 
should  turn  out  and  do  honor  to  the  distinguished  visit- 
ors. But  not  a  few  of  the  town's-people  resolved  at  once 
to  go  to  their  work  in  the  fields,  and  not  stick  a  new 
feather  in  the  political  cap  of  Pappayohannes.  But  the 
maidens  who  belonged  to  the  party  of  Pappakosta,  caus- 
ed the  chief  difficulty  ;  they  determined  not  to  dance  with 
their  political  enemies  at  the  grand  reception.  So  there 
would  be  no  chorus  —  the  chief  attraction  of  a  visit  to 
Arachoba.  As  the  day  turned  out  a  fine  day  for  labor, 
many  of  the  men  and  women  of  the  town  were  seen  early 
in  the  morning  hastening  to  the  Olives  and  vineyards. 

Still  quite  a  number  of  people  remained  behind,  and  it 


POLITICAL    PAENASSUS.  095 

was  announced  that  the  visitors  would  arrive  in  the  after- 
noon from  Delphi.  Not  long  after  dinner  the  caramousa 
and  drum  resounded  through  the  streets,  followed  by  a 
small  procession  of  patriotic  villagers,  who,  after  parading 
a  little  while  and  gathering  up  those  who  were  still  in 
town,  marched  out  to  the  western  entrance,  there  to  await 
the  approach  of  the  guests.  The  schoolmaster  and  my- 
self hastened  out  of  the  house  to  see  the  spectacle  ;  as  the 
line  filed  past  our  abode  we  dropped  into  ranks  and  went 
with  the  procession.  The  band  was  wisely  dismissed  by 
the  Demarch,  as  soon  as  it  had  performed  this  service, 
for  that  music  in  European  ears  might  have  spoiled  the 
reception  and  endangered  the  election  of  the  Demarch. 
The  embassadors  might  have  continued  their  journey 
after  hearing  it,  for  it  was  not  hard  to  mistake  the  music 
as  the  preluding  strains  of  another  sort  of  reception. 

As  usual  there  was  a  long  delay,  and  much  impatience 
was  expressed  at  the  visitors  for  their  failure  to  appear  on 
time.  Groups  of  people  dotted  the  hill-side,  or  were 
perched  on  protruding  rocks ;  the  pleasantest  view  was 
alwa3's  the  red  and  white  bevy  of  maids  in  the  distance. 
But  the  select  company  were  gathered  in  the  road  at  the 
entrance.  The  elders  of  the  town  were  there :  some  had 
fought  in  the  Greek  Revolution,  some  had  been  present 
at  the  famous  battle  here  or  not  far  from  here ;  others 
recollected  the  grand  reception  given  to  King  Otho  in 
his  youth  when  he  passed  through  this  region  ;  it  was  a 
day  of  fond  old  memories.  The  Judge  who  had  ordered 
me  home  on  that  Sunday  of  Olympic  contest  was  present ; 
I  had  the  honor  of  an  introduction,  when  I  mentioned 
the  fact  that  I  had  seen  him  before,  but  he  did  not  seem 
to  remember  me.  Finally  the  little  fat  Demarch  Pappa- 
yohanues  was  present,  everywhere  darting  through  the 
crowd,  puffing,  big  with  something  which  I  afterward 
found  out  to  be  a  speech ;  a  fussy  man,  but  capable  and 
public  spirited. 

But  the  man  who  shone  that  day  with  a  peculiar  splen- 
dor was  the  Capitanos,  thus  familiarly  called  by  the  peo- 
ple. An  aged  son  of  Mars,  yet  full  of  fire  and  youthful 
energy  with  a  springy  step ;  he  had  fought  in  the  Wai'  of 


396  A    WALK  AV  HELLAS. 

Greek  Independence,  and  afterwards  had  served  in  the 
body-guard  of  King  Otho,  who  conferred  upon  him  the 
Order  of  the  Savior.  The  badge  of  this  order  he  now 
wore ;  he  had  also  put  on  his  old  Greek  uniform,  tinseled 
and  bedizened  with  barbaric  splendor,  yet  dim  with  the 
dust  of  time.  At  his  side  dangled  an  antique  sword,  or 
rather  scimetar,  which  he  would  draw  and  shake  at  the 
boys  when  they  were  noisy  or  came  too  near  the  road 
along  which  the  grand  cavalcade  was  to  pass.  He  sprang 
through  the  company,  fiercely  looking  around,  ready  to 
pounce  upon  the  enemy,  if  that  enemy  were  only  there. 

It  was  indeed  a  great  day  for  the  Capitanos.  He  fought 
his  battles  over  again,  and  with  that  crooked  scimetar  of 
his  he  whisked  off  thousands  of  Turkish  heads,  to  the 
intense  delight  of  the  assembled  Greeks.  Particularly  he 
loved  to  give  his  version  of  the  battle  of  Arachoba,  when 
the  Greeks  under  their  chieftain  Karaiskakis  did  actually 
capture  some  5,000  Turks  not  far  from  the  town,  and  at 
once  proceeded  to  sever  head  from  body.  Then  the  mon- 
ument that  they  raised  was  described  by  the  Capitanos  — 
a  new  kind  of  trophy,  a  pyramid  of  Turkish  heads  hewn 
off  and  piled  up  as  high  as  Parnassus.  The  Capitanos 
pointed  out  the  spot :  there  they  were  all  heaped  together. 
"How  many?"  "  Pollas  myriadas  —  many  myriads," 
said  the  Capitanos. 

But  the  chief  event  of  that  battle,  as  it  comes  from  the 
mouths  of  the  people,  was  the  divine  appearance  of  St. 
George,  patron  Saint  of  Arachoba.  The  mighty  dragon- 
slayer  was  now  needed  to  slay  a  new  dragon  spitting  fire 
and  death  from  these  mountains  ;  earnest  was  the  prayer 
for  his  coming,  and  of  a  sudden  he  sprang  out  of  the  air 
in  person  to  help  his  people  in  the  hour  of  their  affliction. 
There  he  was  most  certainly,  in  the  midst  of  the  fight, 
mounted  on  a  white  charger  of  enormous  size,  with  shield 
raised  and  lance  poised,  quite  as  we  behold  him  in  the 
picture  of  the  combat  with  the  old  dragon  whose  place  is 
now  taken  by  the  Turk,  also  veritable  dragon.  Hun- 
dreds of  eyes  saw  him  skewering  Turkish  bodies  on  that 
lance  and  flinging  them  one  after  another  high  into  the 
air,  like  sheaves  of  wheat  from  the  pitchfork  of  the 


POLITICAL   PARNASSUS.  397 

strong-boned  agriculturist.  In  such  manner  the  Saint 
went  through  that  army ;  there  lay  the  foe  scattered  all 
over  the  slopes  of  Parnassus ;  but  when  his  work  was 
done  he  suddenly  disappeared.  To-day  the  new  Cathe- 
dral stands  yonder  in  the  upper  town  of  Arachoba,  over- 
looking our  group  ;  it  is  just  about  to  be  finished,  having 
been  built  in  commemoration  of  the  divine  event,  on  a 
spot  connected,  I  believe,  in  some  way  with  the  great 
epiphany  of  the  Saint. 

So  the  good  people  of  Arachoba  believed  and  narrate  in 
pious  exaltation,  not  however  without  a  little  skeptical 
shaking  of  the  head  on  the  part  of  the  illuminated.  Even 
a  Papas  has  been  known  to  hint  that  it  is  probably  a 
' '  symbol. "  "  Do  you  believe  it  ?"  I  was  asked.  ' '  Cer- 
tainly I  do  ;  St.  George  fought  along  with  you,  and  of  it 
there  are  many  evidences.  Far  otherwise  had  been  the 
story,  if  he  had  not  fought  for  you  and  with  you  on  that 
and  other  days.  There  would  have  been  no  free  Greece, 
no  flourishing  Arachoba ;  there  would  have  been  no  Cap- 
itanos  here  to-day  to  tell  us  the  story.  There  are  some 
days  during  that  war  on  which  he  did  not  fight  in  your 
ranks ;  they  read  differently ;  hence  I  believe  that  he  was 
with  you." 

Suddenly  at  this  point  we  were  interrupted  with  the 
shout :  Here  they  come,  here  they  come !  Not  far  away 
a  small  cavalcade  was  seen  emerging  from  one  of  the 
folds  of  the  mountain  side ;  it  consisted  of  some  ten  or 
twelve  persons  mounted  on  mules  and  donkeys,  with 
drivers  afoot.  The  crowd  hastened  to  the  brow  of  the 
hill  to  witness  the  grand  approach,  and  the  legend  of 
St.  George  dropped  at  once  into  utter  oblivion ;  the 
women  and  nraids  rose  up  along  the  slopes,  showing  their 
Arachobite  costume  to  the  best  advantage.  Thus  several 
hundred  people  were  picturesquely  grouped  at  various 
points  within  easy  sweep  of  the  eye. 

The  road  from  Delphi  winds  along  the  side  of  the 
mountain,  clasping  it  close  like  a  girdle  ;  for  a  long  dis- 
tance it  can  be  seen  swaying  up  and  down,  through  the 
depressions  and  over  the  ridges.  The  cavalcade  seemed 
to  ride  like  a  vessel  over  the  billows  of  the  sea,  as  it  sank 


398  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

into  the  little  dells  and  rose  out  of  them  again.  It  was 
seen  by  the  people  at  their  work  far  above  on  the  mount- 
ain and  far  below  ;  soon  they  began  to  quit  their  toil,  one 
by  one,  and  find  their  way  into  the  nearest  path  leading  to 
the  main  road,  by  which  they  hastened  to  the  town.  After 
all,  they  could  not  stay  away  on  such,  an  important  occa- 
sion for  the  sake  of  political  partisanship.  Some  deeper 
interest  throbbed  in  their  bosoms  than  a  village  election. 

The  guests  arrive  and  dismount,  headed  by  the  Ger- 
man embassador,  while  the  little  Demarch  is  pushing 
through  the  crowd  to  meet  them  and  to  receive  them  in 
the  name  of  the  town,  full  of  perspiration  and  his  big 
speech.  Here  occurred  an  interference  of  which  I  was 
the  unwilling  instrument.  I  was  standing  on  the  outer 
rim  of  the  multitude  which  had  gathered  around,  and  I 
was  doing  my  share  of  staring,  when  some  one  shouted, 
Kyrie  Zene,  empros,  Mr.  Stranger,  forward.  I  think  that 
it  was  Loukas  who  started  that  shout,  let  him  be  con- 
founded, the  mischievous  schoolmaster.  At  once  the  cry 
was  taken  up  by  the  crowd  with  looks  all  turned  toward 
me,  though  I  waved  my  hand  in  dissent.  Two  strong 
palicaris  grasped  me,  each  one  holding  an  arm,  and  hus- 
tled me  forward  to  the  center  of  the  group ;  there  I  was 
in  the  presence  of  the  German  embassador,  to  whom  I 
addressed  a  salutation,  to  which  he  gave  a  friendly  re- 
sponse, and  we  began  to  converse. 

But  this  incident  had  entirely  interrupted  the  course  of 
the  reception.  The  Demarch  had  not  made  his  speech, 
upon  which  possibly  was  staked  the  success  of  his  elec- 
tion. The  little  man  elbowed  his  way  through  the  by- 
standers, and  with  triple  rows  of  sweat-beads  upon  his 
forehead  said  to  me :  two  words,  two  words,  O  friend. 
I  at  once  slunk  back  out  of  the  crowd,  ashamed  of  having 
been  the  means  of  disturbing  the  order  of  the  ceremonies. 
Of  course  I  was  innocent,  but  I  am  in  some  doubt  con- 
cerning those  who  started  the  shout. 

It  is  true  that  there  was  not  a  man,  woman  or  child  in 
all  Arachoba  who  did  not  know  me,  nay,  who  did  not 
know  much  more  of  me  than  I  knew  of  myself.  I  passed 
for  a  Professor  in  the  Great  Columbian  University  of 


POLITICAL    PARNASSUS.  399 

America  to  which  the  University  of  Athens  was  a  mere 
drop  in  the  ocean,  which  had  400,000  students  or  so,  and 
covered  a  territory  half  as  large  as  the  whole  of  Greece. 
Though  I  always  tried  to  stick  to  my  honest  title,  that  of 
Didaskali,  or  Schoolmaster,  I  never  could  get  anybody 
to  address  me  otherwise  than  as  Kathegetes,  or  Professor, 
somewhat  as  it  is  in  my  own  country.  It  was  also  taken 
for  granted  apparently  that  I  could  speak  the  native 
tongue  of  the  embassadors  ;  so  the  people  thought  that  I 
should  be  the  spokesman  of  their  town,  in  which  I  had 
now  resided  for  nearly  three  weeks,  with  many  an  evi- 
dence of  delight.  Such  was  probably  the  motive  of  this 
strange,  but  friendly  outburst  of  theirs. 

Still  I  have  a  lurking  doubt  that  with  two  or  three 
persons  the  affair  was  premeditated ;  I  suspect  that  they 
intended  to  play  one  of  their  shrewd  Greek  tricks,  mak- 
ing me  the  instrument  of  confounding  the  arrangements 
of  Pappayohannes  and  possibly  of  jostling  him  out  of  his 
place  at,  the  reception.  That  would  be  a  good  political 
point  and  make  a  theme  for  many  a  jest  against  an  op- 
ponent. Certain  it  is  that  the  adherents  of  Pappakosta 
seemed  to  have  had  the  chief  hand  in  the  matter.  The 
whole  thing  is  insignificant  except  as  giving  a  slight 
touch  of  Greek  political  cunning  and  partisanship. 

Still  the  reception  was  a  success,  a  great  success ;  the 
Demarchwas  equal  to  the  occasion,  and  his  speech  was.  I 
thought,  admirable  in  every  way,  in  feeling,  style,  deliv- 
ery, but  above  all,  in  the  fact  that  it  was  a  true  utterance 
of  his  peo'ple  at  that  moment,  an  expression  of  their  strong- 
est aspiration.  It  was  of  course  in  Greek,  and  ran  about 
as  follows:  "Honored  Guests,  Representatives  of  the 
Great  Powers  of  Europe ;  it  gives  me  great  pleasure  to 
welcome  you  to  the  town  of  Arachoba,  a  town  not  unknown 
in  the  annals  of  Greek  independence.  "VVe  make  no  claim 
to  the  refined  civilization  of  Western  Europe,  but  you 
will  find  us  a  simple  and  honest  peasantry  whose  hearts 
beat  warm  for  the  welfare  of  our  fatherland.  It  is  our 
boast  that  we  still  possess  many  of  those  peculiarities  which 
belonged  to  the  old  Greeks,  whose  works  you  study  and 
admire  so  much.  For  they  were  our  ancestors  —  there 


400  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

can  be  no  doubt  of  it,  though  some  have  tried  to  deprive 
us  of  that  honor.  But  we  cau  make  good  the  claim ; 
look  around  you,  and  you  can  not  help  seeing  evidences  on 
every  side.  We,  their  children,  pray  that  you  will  not 
forget  us ;  recollect  that  off  here  in  a  a  small  corner  of 
Europe  the  descendants  of  that  people  to  whom  Europe 
may  be  fairly  said  to  owe  its  civilization  are  now  living  in 
poverty  and  weakness,  and,  besides,  are  deprived  of 
their  just  rights.  They  are  longing  once  more  to  rise  into 
a  new  life,  to  be  again  a  great  Hellenic  people.  The  an- 
cient example  still  spurs  us  on  by  its  eternal  presence, 
for  even  in  our  town  you  will  notice  many  a  reminder  of 
antiquity,  indeed  of  old  Homer  himself.  We  pray  that 
you  will  not  deem  it  improper  if  we  tell  you  the  fervent 
hope  of  our  hearts,  and  call  to  your  minds  the  debt  which 
you  owe  our  fathers. 

Greece  now  needs  the  help  of  Western  Europe  in  ac- 
quiring a  portion  —  it  is  but  a  small  portion  —  of  her 
just  territory.  The  treaty  of  Berlin  has  acknowledged  the 
claim,  and  adopted  it  as  one  of  the  provisions  of  Europe's 
peaceful  settlement ;  but  the  Turk  perfidiously  refuses  to 
fulfill  his  promise,  and  will  continue  to  refuse  till  he  be 
compelled  by  you.  We  ask  your  sympathy,  for  we  well 
know  how  much  you  can  do  for  us  ;  we  pray  for  your  aid 
as  Greeks  who  have  transmitted  to  you  the  beginnings  of 
culture  and  have  always  stood  as  Europe's  barrier  against 
the  deluge  from  the  Orient.  We  are  also  your  fellow 
Christians ;  many  of  our  countrymen  have  still  to  groan 
under  the  barbarian's  yoke.  By  the  ties  of  civilization, 
of  religion,  of  humanity,  we  ask  you  to  help  us.  By  the 
feeling  of  nationality  which  you  cherish  most  deeply 
within  your  bosoms,  we  beg  you  to  aid  us  to  rise  to 
a  nation.  Arachoba  is  ready  to  show  its  hospitality  to 
you,  yet  I  would  not  have  you  go  away  without  hav- 
ing heard  her  prayer,  nay  the  prayer  of  all  Greece, 
and  of  the  whole  Hellenic  race." 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  speech,  the  people  broke  forth 
into  rapturous  applause ;  even  the  Pappakostites,  of 
whom  many  had  come  from  the  fields,  pronounced  it  ex- 
cellent, being  carried  away  by  their  enthusiasm  for  a 


POLITICAL    PARNASSUS.  401 

united  Hellas.  Political  discord  disappeared  in  the  com- 
mon Hellenic  note  struck  by  the  Demarch ;  in  repeated 
cheers  its  vibrations  were  heard  echoing  over  the  billowy 
slope  of  Parnassus.  They  all  then  felt  they  had  a  coun- 
try above  their  party,  a  principle  higher  than  clannish  al- 
legiance ;  hateful  partisanship  everywhere  dissolved  for 
the  time  into  the  harmony  of  soul-uniting  patriotism. 
Such  is  the  true  solution  of  those  Olympic  combats  upon 
the  market-place  —  they  have  vanished,  at  the  sound  of 
the  golden  word,  into  that  higher  unity  which  makes  all 
Greek  souls  one  throbbing  aspiration. 

A  worthy  speech,  a  genuine  expression  of  the  people's 
heart,  proving  the  Demarch  to  be  no  mere  village  politi- 
cian, but  a  man  of  Pan-Hellenic  patriotism :  such  is  the 
comment  which  the  sympathetic  stranger,  not  an  embas- 
sador,  will  make.  But  it  was  utterly  blank  to  the  embas- 
sadorial  intelligence,  for  that  did  not  understand  Greek, 
probably  did  not  want  to  understand  it.  At  the  termi- 
nation of  the  speech,  the  interpreter  of  the  embassy  dis- 
patched the  whole  of  it  in  two  or  three  broken  sentences 
of  German,  which  the  embassadors  received  with  a  truly 
diplomatic  politeness  and  secretiveness.  I  do  not  blame 
them,  it  was  probably  the  only  part  they  could  play, 
being  without  emotion,  without  any  ideal,  without  color 
in  their  conduct,  selling  their  political  souls  to  Satan  in 
the  service  of  the  home  government.  Personally  I  liked 
them,  .they  were  gentlemen,  but  I  detest  the  system. 

Such,  however,  was  the  volcanic  question  which  sudden- 
ly burst  up  red-hot  on  that  day  from  Mount  Parnassus  — 
in  substance  still  that  oldest  question  of  Greece:  Orient 
against  Occident.  Little  Greece  is  seeking  again  to  lib- 
erate and  unite  the  Hellenic  race ;  to  redeem  it  from  the 
barbarian  is  her  prayer  now  as  of  old.  There,  too,  she 
stands  a  bulwark  against  the  Oriental  man  to-day  as  in 
the  Persian  War  of  Xerxes,  ready  even  to  make  hostile 
reprisals  on  Asiatic  soil  as  in  the  still  more  ancient  Trojan 
War.  Not  now  with  a  strong  right  arm  do  the  Greeks 
stand  there,  it  is  true,  but  with  something  perdurably 
tougher  —  their  spirit,  their  faith,  their  religion.  Bodily 
they  have  submitted  and  are  weak,  but  spiritually  they 

26 


402  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

are  still  as  unyielding  as  were  the  old  Marathonian  sol- 
diers. Thus  the  spiritual  rampart  remains  yet,  behind 
which  Europe  has  lain  and  still  lies  in  security  —  to  be 
sure,  not  without  some  fighting  on  her  part.  No  dragon- 
ading,  no  tyranny,  no  bribery  has  ever  made  the  Greeks 
lapse  to  Mahommedanism,  or  other  Oriental  forms  of 
spirit;  through  untold  suffering  they  still  remain  firm  — 
the  adamantine  wall  which  keeps  out  the  Orient.  Power- 
ful Occident,  so  long  protected  behind  that  bulwark,  both 
spiritually  and  physically,  Greece  now  asks  to  disenthrall 
her  politically — asks  with  fervent  petition,  but  without 
much  hope. 

It  is  a  consideration  which  must  outweigh  all  others  in 
the  present  question ;  this  Greek  spiritual  realm  the  Turk 
has  never  been  able  to  conquer.  It  is  a  barrier  which  he 
can  not  surmount,  it  stands,  before  him  high  as  heaven ; 
he  has  assailed  it  with  a  rough,  barbarous  hand,  has  en- 
slaved it,  tortured  it ;  but  destroyed  or  absorbed  it  he 
has  not,  and  can  not.  The  salvation  of  Europe  —  one 
may  certainly  affirm,  her  security  has  been  this  Greek 
spiritual  toughness ;  Turkey  has  always  had  to  march 
West  with  the  indigestible  Greek  stone  in  her  stomach ; 
with  that  unassimilated  the  Turk  has  never  been  able  to 
make  any  lasting  conquest  in  the  Occident. 

Still  as  of  old  the  Greek  looks  across  the  sea  toward  the 
East  in  sullen  defiance ;  here  on  Parnassus  to-day  the 
trump  of  war  will  draw  every  peasant  from  his  hamlet, 
will  nerve  his  heart  to  a  supreme  degree  of  energy  and  en- 
durance for  the  Great  Cause  whose  burden  he  has  borne 
since  the  beginning  of  History.  As  you  see  him  muster 
on  the  mountains,  and  train  through  the  villages,  you  will 
feel  that  it  is  still  the  old  Marathonian  spirit,  and  you  will 
think  what  a  destiny  has  been  laid  upon  him,  the  poor 
peasant  —  a  destiny  greater  than  that  of  his  nation,  the 
destiny  of  a  new  world.  In  the  valleys  the  Greek  may 
have  become  degenerate,  in  the  cities,  corrupt;  but  seek 
him  in  his  mountain  fastnesses,  and  you  will  find  the  same 
ring  as  of  old  in  his  actions,  and  the  same  instinctive 
readiness  to  take  his  place  in  the  ranks,  and  do  duty  in 
the  vanguard  of  Western  civilization  against  the  barbarous 
hordes  of  the  East. 


RAMBLES  OVER  PARNASSUS.  403 


XVIII.  RAMBLES   OVER  PARNASSUS. 

You,  my  friends,  as  citizens  of  a  free  commonwealth 
have  an  interest  in  politics ;  I  am  certain  you  would  like 
to  hear  how  the  election  resulted.  It  seems  that  the 
opposition  reinforced  by  vast  promises  and  by  disap- 
pointed place-hunters,  carried  the  day  against  our  friend 
Pappayohannes  ;  but  the  paved  roads  have  not  been  made, 
nor  has  the  market-place  been  even  swept.  Though  there 
has  been  a  complete  change  of  administration,  there  has 
been  no  change  in  the  condition  of  the  streets,  but  for  the 
worse ;  in  fact  Arachoba  is  said  to  be  almost  impassable 
at  this  moment  on  account  of  the  mud  in  the  thorough- 
fares. 

It  is  also  stated  that  the  number  of  applicants  for  the 
offices  has  just  doubled ;  and  Pappakosta,  the  new  De- 
march,  is  still  wrestling  with  this  problem  —  how  to  divide 
twenty  places  among  two  hundred  and  forty  persons,  and 
to  give  each  a  place.  But  the  saddest  lot  befell  the 
applicant  for  the  position  of  town-crier,  whom  you  will 
recollect  to  have  changed  sides  so  patriotically ;  in  spite 
of  the  written  promise  given  him  by  the  new  Demarch,  in 
spite  of  all  his  political  work,  he  did  not  get  the  place. 
Unhappy  man!  Now  he  is  reported  to  have  changed 
again,  having  returned  to  the  fold  of  Pappayohaunes, 
ready  for  a  new  election,  with  a  still  sharper  eye  for  the 
evils  of  the  present  administration.  My  letter  from  an 
Arachobite  friend  recounting  these  matters,  concludes 
with  an  animated  apostrophe:  "  O  ye  office-seeking 
Greeks !  why  work  so  hard  for  a  dishonest  penny  when  an 
honest  one  can  be  gained  for  a  tithe  of  the  effort !  Why 
so  true  to  falsehood,  so  faithful  to  treachery !  they  can 
never  reward  you  even  in  money  for  your  labor,  not  to 
speak  of  your  lost  manhood,  lost  in  such  filthy  work! 
Yet  if  you  merely  prostituted  yourselves,  it  were  endur- 
able, though  bad  enough ;  but  you  are  poisoning  the  life- 
blood  of  the  nation ;  you  pervert  the  State,  which  is  man's 


404  A    WALK  IV  HELLAS. 

chief  instrument  in  raising  himself  to  a  universal  life,  to 
your  own  individual  purposes  of  gain  and  ambition,  mak- 
ing it  as  selfish  as  yourselves.  O  ye  office- seeking 
Greeks,  you  will  yet  ruin  our  beloved  Hellas." 

But  we  have  quite  forgotten  the  embassadors  whom  we 
left  some  time  ago  right  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  un- 
provided with  food  and  shelter.  A  serious  breach  of 
etiquette  toward  those  high  dignitaries ;  clearly  ceremony 
is  not  the  strong  point  of  our  traveler".  But  let  us  hasten 
back  to  them,  still  standing  amid  the  applause  of  the 
people,  who  cheer  the  Demarch's  speech,  till  the  sound 
seems  to  crawl  up  the  sides  of  snowy  Parnassus  to  the 
very  peak.  The  large  company,  piloted  by  the  Demarch, 
soon  started  to  make  the  tour  of  the  town  afoot  in  order 
to  see  the  few  curiosities  and  to  enjoy  the  picturesque 
views  from  the  heights.  After  the  strangers,  who  marched 
at  the  head,  stretched  a  long  straggling  crowd  of  white 
fustanellas,  like  the  tail  to  a  comet.  I  followed,  too, 
somewhere  in  the  tail,  a  spectator ;  but  again  friends 
caught  my  arm  and  said :  ' '  Go  forward. "  "  Why  should 
I  go  forward?"  "  To  talk  to  the  embassadors."  "But 
they  have  an  interpreter  who  speaks  Greek  better  than 
I."  "Never  mind,  we  wish  you  to  tell  them  about  us 
and  about  Greece."  Such  was  the  urgent  demand  com- 
ing from  the  people  there,  I  may  say ;  I  took  it  as  a  call 
to  represent  them  to  the  foreigners,  and  at  once  I  obeyed. 
But  why  they  wanted  me  to  be  their  interpreter,  they  did 
not  say,  nor  can  I  tell,  unless  it  was  the  very  strong 
interest  which  I  had  shown  for  their  life  and  manners 
during  my  stay  of  several  weeks.  They  must  have  felt 
that  I  would  not  treat  them  unsympathetically,  nor  mis- 
represent them,  nor  be  put  down  with  a  sneer.  Accord- 
ingly I  went  forward,  worked  into  the  conversation,  and 
told  the  embassadorial  party  what  I  knew  of  Arachoba 
somewhat  as  you  hear  me  tell  it  now. 

"What  do  you  find  here  to  keep  you  so  long,  here 
where  there  are  no  antiquities?"  asked  the  German  em- 
bassador.  I  replied:  "  The  two  most  splendid  and  perfect 
monuments  of  the  ancient  world  —  the  Greek  language 
and  Greek  customs.  Both  are  fragments  almost  com- 


RAMBLES  OVER  PARNASSUS.  405 

plete,  of  the  old  stock,  yet  both  are  alive  still  and  green ; 
neither  can  be  adequately  obtained  from  books,  but  only 
by  living  contact.  Ruins  they  may  be  called,  but  Italy 
and  Europe  cannot  match  them ;  nor  can  they  be  carried 
away  from  this  soil  and  set  up  in  museums.  The  truth  is 
I  am  engaged  in  a  sort  of  excavation,  not  of  death  and 
ruins,  but  of  life  and  manners." 

The  origin  of  the  modern  Greek,  too,  came  up  for  dis- 
cussion in  which  I  maintained  the  Greek  origin  of  the 
Greeks,  at  least  of  these  of  Arachoba,  The  honest  deal- 
ing of  those  sturdy  people  I  praised ;  their  sincere  yet  po- 
etic Life  I  tried  to  describe.  I  recollect  that  the  ernbassa- 
dors  never  took  sides,  neither  affirmed  nor  denied  what  I 
said,  never  changed  their  impassive  color ;  every  one  of 
them  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  orders  from  the  home 
government.  I  sought  to  point  out  certain  Homeric  cus- 
toms still  common  in  Arachoba ;  the  blank  faces  appeared 
to  answer  me :  Upon  that  point  we  have  no  instructions 
from  our  ministry.  One  thing  I  did  admire  in  them  —  it 
was  the  stoical  perfection  with  which  they  could  endure 
being  bored.  World  destroying  dullness,  star-sparkling 
vivacity  were,  I  should  judge,  quite  the  same  to  the  em- 
bassadorial  mind ;  and  why  should  they  not  be  to  men 
who  get  their  souls  sent  by  mail  from  the  home  govern- 
ment ?  Their  indifference  did  not  disturb  me  much ;  the 
thought  darted  through  my  head  to  touch  them  with  a 
political  theme,  which  was  very  near  to  me  and  to  my 
Arachobite  constituency:  namely,  the  attitude  of  the 
European  powers  toward  Hellenic -unity.  I  was  saved 
from  this  last  impropriety  by  the  Demarch  who  came  in, 
announcing :-  Dinner  is  ready.  At  once  the  stark  em- 
bassadorial  countenance  changed,  lighting  up  with  the 
rise  of  the  new  suns,  and  saying  with  great  brilliancy : 
Upon  this  point  we  have  instructions  from  the  home 
government.  They  disappeared  through  the  door  of  the 
dining-room,  at  a  run,  that  was  the  last  I  saw  of  the  em- 
bassadors  ;  and  the  chief  thing  about  them  still  remaining 
in  the  memory  is,  the  embassadorial  cut  of  the  coat-tail. 

It  was  one  of  the  curious  episodes  of  my  European 
journey  —  I  reflected  after  I  went  home  that  evening  — 


406  A    WALK  Itf  HELLAS. 

that  just  here  in  the  rural  town  of  Arachoba  I  should 
meet  the  first  embassador,  and  be  brought  into  personal 
relation  with  diplomatic  gentlemen.  I  had  passed 
through  capitols  full  of  such  people,  but  I  had  avoided  all 
courts  and  all  ceremonies,  for  witnessing  which  some 
diplomatic  intervention  is  necessary.  No  minister  of  my 
own  country  had  I  met,  not  even  a  consul.  Now  at  a 
town  out  of  the  way  and  inaccessible  to  a  vehicle,  where 
few  strangers  are  ever  seen,  these  diplomatic  dignitaries 
had  come  to  me,  and  I  was  present  for  the  first  time  at  a 
kind  of  reception.  Thus  what  one  studiously  avoids 
comes  upon  him  in  places  where  least  expected  —  as  if 
chance  loved  once  in  a  while  to  indulge  in  an  ironical 
jest.  The  modern  History  of  Europe  leaves  an  odious 
impression  of  diplomats  and  diplomacy  upon  the  mind 
of  the  reader,  who  will  be  inclined  to  shun  the  thing  in 
all  of  its  manifestations. 

Nor  can  I  avoid  interweaving  some  discordant  reflec- 
tions upon  the  American  Diplomatic  Service  in  Europe. 
The  whole  system  ought  to  be  abolished,  and  the  busi- 
ness of  the  Legation,  like  any  other  business,  be  put  into 
the  hands  of  a  competent  agent.  Anybody  can  now 
travel  from  one  end  of  Europe  to  the  other  without  re- 
course to  an  American  official ;  I  never  found  any  use 
for  my  passport  even.  The  minister  at  present  serves 
chiefly  for  the  introduction  of  American  women  at  court, 
for  which  there  seems  to  be  as  yet  no  urgent  international 
necessity.  Still  the  pressure  must  be  something  awful, 
if  we  may  judge  by  certain  cases  known  to  travelers,  in 
which  the  American  colony  of  a  European  city  has  been 
turned  upside  down  to  get  the  girl  of  the  period,  daugh- 
ter of  the  haberdasher  almighty,  presented  to  royalty. 
Let  us  abolish  the  whole  business ;  it  is  an  old-world 
bauble  with  which  we  have  nothing  to  do. 

Diplomacy  does  not  belong  to  America  nor  is  it  an 
American  need ;  it  is  a  child  of  European  necessities. 
For  Europe  is  an  intimate  family  of  nations  with  con- 
tiguous territory ;  each  of  these  nations  may  find  it  worth 
Avhile  to  have  a  representative  always  present  at  the 
capitols  of  the  other  nations,  in  order  to  promote  domestic 


RAMBLES   OVER  PARNASSUS.  407 

harmony  and  prevent  domestic  quarrels ;  thus  it  is  a 
domestic  arrangement  purely.  Just  as  it  was  necessary 
for  Europe  at  one  time  and  may  be  still,  just  so  unneces- 
sary it  is  for  us.  Did  America  have  anything  to  say  at 
the  Berlin  conference?  Nothing  —  and  justly  so,  she 
does  not  belong  to  the  family,  and  had  no  business  with 
the  quarrel.  Nor  does  the  minister  attend  to  any  really 
important  transaction  at  present,  he  cannot  be  entrusted 
with  it.  Witness  the  Geneva  negotiation ;  we  sent  a 
special  agent  to  look  after  that  affair,  as  we  must  do  in'all 
such  cases,  if  the  work  is  to  be  properly  done.  Doubtless 
the  minister  is  given  something  to  do  abroad,  but  often  it 
had  better  be  left  undone,  and  always  the  special  agent 
will  do  it  better.  The  truth  is,  in  our  system  confedera- 
tion of  states  has  taken  the  place  of  diplomacy ;  and  in 
any  system  the  unity  and  brotherhood  of  nations  ought  to 
be  elevated  into  law,  and  not  subjected  to  the  caprices  of 
the  diplomatic  weather-cock. 

But  if  the  effect  abroad  be  nothing  or  positively  bad, 
the  effect  at  home  is  much  worse,  it  corrupts  the  whole 
elective  system.  Foreign  appointments  have  fallen  to 
the  nature  of  political  bribes,  with  which  the  successful 
President  rewards  his  supporters.  Politicians,  having 
become  intolerable  in  their  own  community  are  sent  off 
for  a  time,  to  be  forgotten  at  home,  but  to  disgrace  their 
country  abroad.  Recently  distinguished  literary  merit 
has  been  rewarded  with  diplomatic  appointments  —  just 
the  thing  to  which  it  has  never  been  trained,  and  for 
which  it  is  specially  disqiialified.  A  good  poet  is  not 
likely  to  be  a  good  diplomat ;  but  he  is  not  a  disgrace, 
and  that  is  a  gain.  Recall  the  ministers  resident,  give  us 
competent  'consular  agents  to  do  the  business,  the  best 
legal  talent  for  the  international  questions,  and  abolish 
the  Diplomatic  Service  with  its  senseless  aping  after 
things  European.  Much  has  Europe  to  give  us,  but  this 
thing  belongs  to  her  exclusively. 

Yet  Diplomacy  is  clearly  doomed  in  Europe  too.  It  is 
a  very  unsatisfactory  way  of  securing  the  unity  which 
belongs  to  the  European  Powers.  A  faint  recognition  of 
the  oneness  of  Europe  lies  in  the  fact  of  Diplomacy,  but 


408  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

altogether  too  faint  for  the  spirit  of  the  age.  Its  heart- 
lessness,  its  treachery,  its  infernal  system  of  lying,  its  in- 
justice have  made  it  hateful  to  honest  men  at  all  times, 
but  now  its  inadequacy  is  the  most  serious  ground  for 
complaint.  This  international  life  must  be  raised  out  of 
the  realm  of  caprice,  and  secretion  and  deception,  into 
the  clear  open  day  of  law  with  its  universality ;  in  other 
words  it  must  be  made  institutional  in  the  highest  sense 
of  the  term.  For  an  international  spirit  has  arisen  and 
demands  full  recognition  and  an  organization  —  distinct 
from,  yet  not  hostile  to,  but  complementary  of  the  national 
life.  In  that  spirit  man  lives  with  his  age  and  not  alone 
with  his  nationality,  he  leads  a  universal  life. 

Diplomacy  is  thus  superannuated,  it  hangs  together  with 
standing  armies,  national  jealousies,  war.  There  must 
be  an  organized  Europe,  a  United  Nations  of  Europe  as 
there  is  a  United  States  of  America,  with  supreme  au- 
thority, and  an  independent  existence  outside  and  above 
its  several  members.  This  is  not  to  destroy  nationality 
but  to  preserve  it,  to  assert  the  primary  principle  of  the 
nation  to  be  the  right  to  its  own  individual  life.  This 
should  be  the  first  article  of  that  higher  European  Con- 
stitution :  no  Nation  shall  be  destroyed.  Such  a  conscious- 
ness once  universal  in  the  people,  and  realized  adequately 
in  institutions,  dispenses  with  armies,  with  wars,  with 
diplomacy  —  it  solves  the  European  Problem  of  the 
present.  But  think  of  old  Blood  and  Iron  taking  my  ad- 
vice or  any  advice :  so  lie  on  and  fight  on  till  the  time  be 
ripe. 

Upon  Parnassus  one  may  have  the  privilege  of  dream- 
ing of  such  a  European  confederacy,  and  of  Greece  being 
a  member  of  the  same.  Then  there  might  be  some  fair 
adjustment  of  her  claims  based  upon  a  recognition  of  the 
Hellenic  people,  as  a  member  of  the  European  family. 
Recognition  is  the  divinest  attribute  of  the  soul  —  recog- 
nition that  thy  neighbor  is  what  thou  art.  It  is  the 
foundation  of  all  that  is  tcue  in  man,  of  all  that  is  right 
in  the  world,  of  all  that  is  holy  in  heaven,  for  God  is  the 
supreme  recognizer.  If  a  people  could  see  that  a  wrong 
done  to  another  people  is  a  wrong  to  itself,  if  an  individual 


E 'AMBLES   OVER  FAUNAS S US.  409 

could  see  that  an  unjust  act  to  the  neighbor  is  the  worst 
injustice  to  himself,  this  would  indeed  be  a  new-created 
world.  The  only  true  life  for  the  State  as  well  as  for  the 
man  is  the  universal  one,  springing  from  recognition,  from 
that  insight  which  banishes  all  selfish  limitation,  and  by 
which  one  beholds  true  self-hood  not  in  himself  alone  but 
also  in  his  neighbor.  Such  recognition,  realized  in  an 
institution,  will  yet  give  the  Federation  of  Europe. 

I  am  well  aware  that  the  practical  statesman,  as  he  de- 
lights to  call  himself,  has  far  other  standards  of  conduct. 
Thus  he  will  speak,  always  laying  the  emphasis  upon  his 
practicality:  "You  pedagogues,  professors,  pedants, 
avaunt  with  your  dreams  of  old  Greece !  Go  stick  your 
noses  into  your  Homer  and  Plato,  there  indulge  your 
fancies;  don't  come  around  us  practical  men  with  your 
visionary  sentimentality  begotten  of  your  reading  in  the 
ancient  classics.  Are  we  to  abandon  our  interests  in  the 
Levant  on  account  of  your  admiration  for  Sophocles  ? 
Statesmanship  is  a  practical  science,  it  has  nothing  to  do 
with  your  fine  theories  concerning  national  rights  ;  as  to 
your  rhapsody  about  recognition,  I  don't  understand  it, 
I  don't  believe  there  is  such  a  thing."  Let  the  man  alone, 
he  is  building  his  own  hell-fire,  only  through  it  can  he 
and  his  class  be  purified  and  prepared  for  the  better  world. 

But  we  shall  now  take  our  leave  of  diplomats  and  di- 
plomacy ;  on  the  whole  it  is  a  discordant  theme  in  this 
region,  but  it  forced  itself  upon  our  attention,  sending 
its  dissonant  thrill  through  Parnassus.  Arachoba  settles 
down  to  its  customary  life,  resuming  its  songs  and  its 
task  ;  an  industrious  town,  one  will  say,  yet  not  feverish 
with  over-work,  not  always  desperately  clutching  for  gain. 
Politics  arouses  the  people  at  times,  but  the  atmosphere 
is  one  of  golden  tranquillity,  a  repose  even  in  effort,  a 
happy  moderation  both  in  toil  and  in  rest.  Here  reigns 
that  harmony  between  the  inner  and  outer  world  called 

joy- 

My  friend,  the  schoolmaster,  has  often  invited  me  to 
cross  over  Parnassus  to  the  towns  on  the  northern  side  of 
the  mountain;  something  worthy  of  being  seen  is  there, 
he  affirms.  Accordingly  with  gun  on  his  shoulders  ha 


410  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

starts  out  taking  me  along ;  he  hopes  to  fetch  home  a  hare 
or  pheasant,  though  his  choice  of  all  game  would  be  a 
Turk.  Yet  he  is  one  of  the  gentlest  of  men,  a  believer  in 
universal  peace,  after  the  next  war  with  Turkey  is  done. 
For  several  hours  we  toil  over  ridges  and  through  defiles ; 
strong  mountainous  scenery  shuts  us  in  on  every  side,  yet 
utterly  desolate.  Some  feeling  of  terror  there  is  hero, 
nature  speaks  with  the  voice  of  a  Titan,  that  voice  is  cer- 
tainly felt,  if  not  heard.  The  mythus  will  seek  to  give 
expression  to  this  feeling ;  the  need  of  such  an  utterance 
can  still  be  strongly  experienced  by  a  walk  among  these 
towering  shapes ;  no  scientific  knowledge  of  geological 
formations  and  causes  can  possibly  take  the  place  of  th:it 
primitive  voice  of  the  mountains. 

The  schoolmaster  tells  me  of  the  supernatural  powers 
which  are  still  thought  by  the  people  to  dwell  here.  He 
called  them  Nereids,  who,  however,  no  longer  stay  in  the 
sea,  but  haunt  the  mountains,  with  a  particular  fondness 
for  caves.  The  Korykian  Cave  near  one  of  the  summits 
which  we  passed  is  their  favorite  resort,  whence  they 
strike  the  children  in  the  village.  One  will  see  the  Ara- 
chobite  mother  dressing  her  baby,  and  throwing  on  its 
little  shirt  some  powder  which  will  keep  these  wicked 
sprites  at  a  distance  ;  cases  having  been  known  in  which 
according  to  popular  legend,  infants  have  been  snatched 
up  by  them  and  carried  off  to  the  mountains.  Thus  the 
modern  Nereid  has  made  a  wonderful  change  of  position  ; 
having  risen  from  the  depths  of  the  sea,  she  has  perched 
herself  on  the  top  of  Parnassus. 

We  begin  to  descend  the  other  side  of  the  range,  and 
reach  a  small  town  which  still  lies  high  up  in  the  mount- 
ains ;  this  my  friend  tells  me,  is  his  summer  residence 
during  vacation  ;  while  the  hot  season  lasts  many  people 
come  from  the  plain  below  and  reside  in  this  cool  little 
nest  among  the  rocks.  It  is  a  pleasant  spot,  with  fount- 
ains, fruit  trees,  mills,  cascades ;  but  it  doubtless  pos- 
sesses the  capacity  to  become  wearisome.  We  visited 
several  citizens,  among  others  the  schoolmaster  of  the 
place,  who  is  in  luck,  having  just  brought  a  young  bride 
into  his  house.  Fortunate  schoolmaster !  Could  he  but 


RAMBLES   OVER  PARNASSUS.  411 

teach  his  own  success  in  such  matters,  what-  a  school 
would  he  not  soon  bring  together  in  that  lofty  Parnassian 
village  from  the  ends  of  the  earth !  We  went  to  another 
notability  of  the  place,  the  wife  of  a  shepherd.  A  strange 
husband  she  has  ;  if  he  comes  home  and  stays  in  a  house, 
he  gets  sick ;  so  he  sleeps  under  the  stars  among  his 
sheep,  leaving  his  wife  and  children  to  live  under  a  roof 
in  the  village.  In  such  manner  we  pass  from  house  to 
house,  everywhere  enjoying  hospitable  welcome,  with 
bread,  cheese,  and  roast  lamb,  floated  by  rivulets  of 
recinato  gurgling  on  all  sides. 

To-day  is  again  a  festival ;  caramousa  and  drum  have 
already  begun  to  send  up  their  notes  from  the  choral 
place,  whereat  everybody  shows  some  uneasiness  in  the 
feet.  Thither,  accordingly,  we  all  adjourn ;  on  our  way 
we  come  upon  dances  led  by  the  song,  and  composed 
wholly  of  women,  both  the  young  and  the  grey-haired. 
Years  seem  not  to  make  people  old  here,  and  life  is  a 
continued  festival,  with  some  work-days  thrown  in  for  the 
sake  of  variety.  A  new  set  of  songs  one  will  notice,  too, 
yet  with  the  old  theme  which  remains  ever  new  —  Love  ; 
then  other  elements  of  Greek  life  play  in  —  the  brigand, 
the  papas,  the  Turkish  dog  which  they  all  would  like  to 
eat  alive.  Strange  to  say,  I  heard  the  love  affair  of 
Margherita  sung  by  Parnassian  maids,  who  accompanied 
their  song  with  a  dance,  which  must  have  stirred  up  the 
ghost  of  Father  Goethe. 

The  chorus  is  quite  the  same  here  as  at  Arachoba  and 
need  not  be  again  described.  But  the  traveler  must 
make  honorable  mention  of  a  youth,  the  king  of  dancers, 
who  perform§d  a  great  many  new  variations  to  the  delight 
of  the  assembled  multitude.  How  he  leaped  and  whirled 
and  plunged  and  shook  himself !  The  most  surprising 
movements  he  went  through,  extemporaneously  it  was 
evident ;  the  folds  of  f ustanella  surged  around  his  body 
like  troubled  waves  crested  with  sea-foam.  At  a  certain 
crisis  he  kicked  off  his  red  moccasins  and  danced  in  his 
bare  feet.  He  sat  down  exhausted  finally,  with  a  look  of 
disappointment  in  his  face,  probably  because  he  had  not 
succeeded  in  leaping  out  of  his  own  skin. 


412  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

The  costumes  produce  no  such  effect  as  at  Arachoba ; 
nor  are  the  women  so  handsome.  The  acquaintance  at 
my  elbow  gives  the  reason :  the  women  in  these  parts 
have  to  work  in  the  plain  during  the  summer,  when  they 
become  tanned  by  the  sun,  and  often  diseased  with 
malaria ;  while  the  Arachobite  women  labor  out  of  doors 
during  the  winter  only,  and  when  summer  comes,  are 
occupied  with  in-door  work,  particularly  with  weaving. 
Still  the  speaker  thought  with  the  same  opportunity,  his 
townswomen  would  be  more  beautiful  than  the  Aracho- 
bitzas,  wherein  he  revealed  a  slight  touch  of  jealousy. 
Thus  that  Greek  resident  sought  to  claim  beauty  as  native 
to  his  town ;  though  he  probably  would  not  make  an  ex- 
pedition for  it,  as  his  ancestors  did,  across  the  sea  to 
Troy. 

As  I  stood  looking  at  the  chorus,  a  man  touched  my 
arm,  and  thrust  into  my  face,  when  I  turned  towards 
him,  an  enormous  wolf-skin  stretched  on  a  pole,  crying, 
Pentari,  peutari.  The  skin  came  from  an  animal  which 
he  had  killed  somewhere  on  Parnassus  ;  this  mountain  is 
still  infested  with  wolves  which  often  in  cold  weather 
descend  upon  the  flocks.  When  any  one  kills  a  beast  of 
that  kind,  he  fetches  the  skin  to  the  village,  and  exhibits 
it  fastened  upon  a  pole  like  a  banner ;  with  it  he  goes 
around  at  the  time  of  some  festival  where  the  people  are 
assembled,  and  is  entitled  to  a  small  contribution  from 
the  inhabitants  on  account  of  the  general  benefit  conferred 
by  killing  the  monster.  The  pedestrian  will  not  feel  him- 
self exempt  from  this  small  tax,  for  that  same  wolf,  run- 
ning at  large  might  have  fed  on  him  during  his  solitary 
rambles  over  the  mountains.  Wild  boars  are  still  re- 
ported to  be  on  Parnassus,  lineal  descendants  of  that  one 
which  wounded  Ulysses,  and  produced  the  most  famous 
of  all  scars  known  in  legend  or  history,  the  scar  of  rec- 
ognition in  the  Odyssey. 

Yet  another  scene.  Suddenly  a  man  darts  through  the 
crowd  having  a  drawn  knife,  and  brandishing  it  with 
angry  shouts  ;  the  chorus  breaks  up,  all  the  men  rush  to 
a  common  centre,  women  huddle  to  one  side  affrighted. 
It  is  manifest  that  this  is  no  part  of  the  dance  —  what, 


RAMBLE  8   OVER  PARNASSUS.  413 

then,  is  the  matter?  It  turned  out  to  be  an  old  grudge 
between  two  shepherds  on  account  of  a  she-goat.  The 
young  fellow,  a  hot-head,  flamed  up  seeing  his  adversary 
dance  with  so  much  joy  at  the  festival;  he  drew  his 
knife  and  rushed  forward,  but  friends  stepped  between, 
and  held  him,  though  he  tugged  stoutly  to  be  released. 
Still  I  cannot  think  that  the  youth's  thoughts  were  very 
bloody ;  there  was  too  much  display  in  his  attempt,  he 
too  plainly  sought  to  be  stopped.  If  you  wish  to  kill 
your  man,  step  tip  quietly  to  him  and  run  your  knife  into 
him ;  if  you  wish  to  be  stopped,  make  a  terrible  ado. 
So  I  gave  to  the  young  shepherd  the  credit  of  consider- 
able theatrical  talent ;  the  dramatic  muse  of  Parnassus 
still  imparts  her  gift  to  the  humblest  dwellers  on  her 
mountain. 

The  chorus  commences  anew,  but  we  start  for  ancient 
Lilaea,  or  rather  for  the  modern  town  built  near  it  and 
situated  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain.  Scenery  is  varied 
and  at  times  approaches  grandeur;  thei-e  are  deep 
gorges  and  high  precipices ;  a  few  vineyards  hang  on 
the  slopes,  wherever  they  can  find  a  little  soil ;  herds  one 
will  pass  through.  The  shepherdess  carries  her  house- 
hold slung  across  her  back,  in  a  kind  of  bag,  with  a  little 
head  peeping  out,  sometimes  two.  Most  beautiful  is  the 
atmosphere,  perfectly  transparent,  yet  with  a  golden  haze 
resting  on  the  distant  hills.  Every  look  at  them  becomes 
a  tender  poem  ;  but  the  passage  over  the  road,  horrent 
with  sharp-pointed  rocks  thrusting  themselves  out  of  the 
mountain  at  you,  is  the  dreadfulest  prose.  The  mule 
winds  about  through  them  as  if  they  were  a  nest  of  vipers 
rearing  their  heads  from  the  earth  and  hissing ;  a  straight 
path  through  them  is  impossible.  Such  is  the  horrible 
discord  under  our  feet,  but  distance  reduces  it  to  the 
sweetest  harmony,  for  yonder  soft  blue  hill-top  is  said  to 
be  as  prickly  as  our  present  way. 

The  Greeks,  with  me,  seem  to  have  little  appreciation 
of  this  landscape,  yet  it  would  be  a  great  mistake  to 
think  that  it  produces  no  influence  upon  them.  It  is  a 
kind  of  education  ;  its  result  comes  out  in  the  way  of 
poetic  temperament,  in  the  way  of  costume  and  of  man- 


414  A  WALK  JiV  HELLAS. 

ners.  Direct  admiration  of  scenery  you  will  not  notice, 
but  this  Nature  certainly  attunes  the  heart  to  a  musical 
idyllic  existence.  The  expression  of  it,  therefore,  is  not 
in  words,  but  in  life  —  altogether  the  best  expression. 
For  the  love  of  scenery  is  to  a  certain  extent  artificial,  or 
at  least  the  product  of  an  artificial  society  seeking  with 
effort  to  get  a  fresh  breath  of  Nature  ;  that  effort  is  too 
often  perceptible,  and  causes  a  jar  in  certain  glowing 
descriptions. 

Still  the  modern  love  of  scenery  is  genuine ;  what  is 
the  ground  of  it?  It  is  a  reaction  against  Law ;  every- 
where in  civilized  life  Nature  is  chained  down  by  Law, 
and  made  subservient  to  the  uses  of  men.  Let  us  see 
her  free  again  in  her  own  spontaneous  outpourings  ;  —  so 
we  go  to  the  country*,  to  the  hills.  Civilization  makes 
Nature  a  slave,  Natural  Science  forges  the  chain.  The 
Great  Mother  loses  her  volition  in  the  cities  ;  we  wish  to 
see  her  acting  of  her  own  accord  ;  this  has  given  rise  to  a 
literature  which  undertakes  to  describe  Nature  in  her 
freedom.  It  is  a  true  field  for  the  writer,  but  there  is 
the  danger  of  a  florid  extravagance,  and  the  still  greater 
danger  of  sentimentality.  Science  has  disenchanted 
Natiire  of  her  poetry ;  we  seek  to  recover  this  poetry  by 
sentiment,  which  is  a  true  thing,  but  is  liable  to  gush  into 
the  sentimental,  which  is  an  untrue  thing. 

To  us  Nature  is  not  alive  as  it  was  to  the  old  Greeks ; 
it  is  now  a  sort  of  a  stage  ;  we  call  it  appearance,  scenery, 
that  is,  stagery,  some  pageant  gotten  up  by  a  mechanical 
contrivance  for  the  amusement  of  the  spectators.  Such 
are  too  often  the  descriptions  of  Nature  in  the  Novel, 
in  the  book  of  Travels ;  artificiality,  often  affectation, 
makes  them  anything  but  refreshing.  The  forms  of 
Mythology  which  represented  Nature  to  the  Greek,  have 
also  become  stagery  ;  Pan  and  the  Nymphs  are  often  as 
affected  as  Nature  herself.  Now  what  is  the  matter?  It 
is  clear  that  these  forms  must,  in  all  true  Art,  represent 
the  spiritual ;  if  they  are  filled  with  that,  they  remain 
eternally  fresh  and  young ;  if  they  lose  it,  they  become  a 
kind  of  theatrical  machinery  introduced  externally  for 
mere  effect,  they  become  stagery.  Nature  has  a  soul  in 


RAMBLES   OVER  PARNASSUS.  415 

all  her  manifestations ;  he  who  can  catch  that  faint 
efflorescence  of  the  spiritual  in  a  landscape,  and  transmit 
it  in  words  or  by  color,  is  the  Artist.  But  he  who  can 
give  her  merely  outward  forms  without  at  the  same  time 
imaging  what  is  within,  may  be  a  good  mechanic  in  words 
and  colors,  but  his  work  is  and  must  remain  soulless ; 
Artist  we  cannot  name  him. 

Two  new  classes  of  Artists  we  moderns  have  called 
into  being,  and  in  whom  we  have  a  right  to  rejoice:  land- 
scape-painters and  landscape-poets.  Far  otherwise  is 
the  attitude  of  the  simple-hearted  pastoral  man  toward 
Nature  ;  he  cannot  say  to  himself:  "  Come  let  us  admire 
this  scene,  then  let  us  give  a  description  of  it."  He  ele- 
vates the  natural  appearance  into  the  mythus ;  the  tree 
even  becomes  a  divine  object  with  a  God  in  it,  still  more 
the  mountain  and  the  running  stream.  Every  physical 
object  changes  into  the  expression  of  the  spiritual,  indeed 
of  the  divine ;  thus  all  Nature  is  transfigured  under  his 
vision,  and  he  himself  is  no  longer  this  natural  man  sim- 
ply, but  becomes  a  mythopoeic  being,  filled  with  the 
whispers  of  the  Muse,  who  is  singing  perpetually  of  these 
wonders  around  him  ;  he  becomes  a  mythus  himself. 

But  we  have  already  reached  the  town  at  the  foot  of 
the  mountain :  here,  too,  rises  the  sound  of  music  and 
song  —  it  is  another  chorus.  Four  or  five  villages  appear 
in  view  ;  also  from  these  in  different  directions  the  same 
sound  of  festivity  can  be  heard,  marked  by  the  low  dull 
thud  of  the  drum.  Truly  all  Parnassus  has  become  vocal 
to-day  with  melody,  rude  but  genuine  ;  we  can  scarcely 
utter  the  literal  fact  that  the  mountain  is  the  seat  of 
song  without  rising  into  the  mythus.  In  some  such 
way  that  old  'designation  of  Parnassus  arose,  which, 
once  the  simple  expression  of  truth,  has  now  become  a 
fable. 

From  the  inhabited  village  we  pass  to  the  ruins ;  here 
lies  the  old  Homeric  town  which  contributed  its  contingent 
to  the  Trojan  War,  as  duly  noted  by  the  Poet ;  it,  too, 
could  throb  with  fierce  ardor  for  the  recovery  of  Helen ; 
the  traveler  will  tingle  with  delight  as  he  -looks  on  the 
walls  which  held  such  a  people,  will  be  kindled  anew  by 


416  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

their  example.  Is  there  not  a  common  bond  between  him 
and  them  —  the  old  dwellers  of  this  spot  three  thousand 
years  ago?  So  he  feels,  so  you  may  feel;  a  brotherhood 
of  aspiration  it  is,  very  different  is  its  outer  manifesta- 
tion, but  one  in  soul.  Not  much  is  recorded  of  the  town 
in  Geeek  history ;  it  lay  off  here  in  its  quiet  nook,  enjoy- 
ing its  songs  and  its  tranquil  existence ;  but  that  single 
fact  is  enough  to  preserve  it  forever ;  many  a  city  .far 
richer,  far  more  active  and  populous,  will  vanish  into 
nameless  dust,  but  this  little  spot,  marked  by  the  head- 
waters of  Kephissus,  will  never  lose  its  name  ;  all  because 
it  marched  forth  valiantly  for  the  recovery  of  Helen. 
Something  eternal  there  seems  to  be  in  that  action. 

Two  sets  of  walls  will  be  noticed  at  a  superficial  glance. 
The  one,  inclosing  a  small  conical  hill,  is  the  wall  of  the 
acropolis  —  massive,  Cyclopean,  piled  up  to  endure  for- 
ever. This  was,  doubtless,  the  Homeric  town,  girded 
with  those  heavy  stone  blocks ;  the  sacred  part,  which 
must  be  most  strongly  built  on  account  of  its  divine  duty  — 
hence  it  is  preserved  almost  complete  to-day.  For  these 
huge  stones  were  brought  together  with  untold  labor,  not 
to  protect  the  man,  but  the  God,  guardian  of  the  people. 
Something  adamantine  in  these  Homeric  towns  ;  their  fame 
and  their  stones  endure  together ;  indeed,  the  Cyclopean 
wall  has  many  a  touch  of  a  line  of  Homer  ;  strong,  simple, 
most  sincerely  built,  and  of  a  primitive  grandeur. 

But  the  other  wall,  which  is  of  considerable  extent,  and 
includes  a  part  of  a  high  hill  is  of  later  date,  doubtless  of 
various  later  dates,  if  we  may  judge  by  the  difference  in 
the  masonry.  It  speaks  of  a  large,  prosperous  city ;  of 
manifold  calamities  ;  even  of  a  decaying  false  civilization  ; 
for  portions  of  this  wall  indicate  pretentious  fliinsiness, 
tell  a  falsehood  quite  like  a  human  tongue. 

Let  us  then  turn  away  from  it  and  notice  this  hill-side, 
where  the  ancient  theater  doubtless  was  ;  seats  are  still 
visible  in  the  undulations  of  the  ground,  though  they  are 
covered  with  earth.  Fragments  of  stone,  wrought  parts 
of  some  column  still  lie  in  the  soil,  quite  in  the  same  spot 
where  the  pitiless  barbarian  left  them  after  toppling  them 
down,  one  imagines.  People,  too,  one  will  put  here,  in 


RAMBLES   OVER  PARNASSUS.  417 

the  mind's  eye ;  if  stoue  suffered  such  ruin,  what  must 
flesh  have  endured?  Read  it  in  the  pieces,  in  the  broken 
pillar,  in  the  fallen  temple.  Flesh  indeed  is  the  bearer  of 
the  same  spirit  as  stone ;  both  are  smitten  by  the  same 
blow,  quite  in  the  same  fashion,  when  the  thing  they  rep- 
resent must  be  gotten  out  of  the  world. 

Passing  beyond  the  two  walls  of  ancient  Lilsea,  one 
of  which  we  see  to  be  adamantine  truth,  the  other  of 
which  we  feel  to  be  something  less  than  truth,  shading 
itself  down  into  absolute  falsehood,  we  strike  into  anoth- 
er strong  and  true  thing,  namely,  an  old  road  paved 
with  large  thick  stones,  evidently  once  used  for  wheeled 
vehicles.  It  is  a  strange  appearance  ;  no  such  road  is  to 
be  found  now  in  all  this  region ;  even  the  macadamized 
Great  Road  which  we  left  long  ago,  contrasts  unfavora- 
bly with  this  stout  enduring  way,  still  marked  with 
creases  from  ancient  usage.  Let  us  follow  such  a  road, 
for  we  have  faith  that  it  will  conduct  us  to  some  spot 
worth  visiting. 

The  way  leads  to  a  little  temple  which  overlooks  the 
golden  grain- fields  of  the  valley ;  mark  its  delightful 
position ;  build  it  up  anew  from  its  ruins,  then  walk 
among  its  columns,  glancing  across  to  the  sunny  hills 
opposite  :  such  a  view  is  an  act  of  worship.  A  few  steps 
further  will  bring  you  to  an  immense  spring  which  gushes 
up  from  the  earth  and  is  at  once  a  river,  roaring  at  mid- 
day like  a  bull,  said  the  old  traveler.  Here  is  another 
small  temple  or  chapel,  built  over  the  fountain,  or  very 
near  it,  sacred  to  the  nymph,  we  may  suppose.  A  piece 
of  a  marble  pillar  lies  in  the  bed  of  the  stream,  with  end 
jutting  out  of  the  ooze  above  the  surface  of  the  waters 
which  gurgle  'around  it  caressingly  as  if  rejoicing  that  it 
is  still  their  own.  In  the  fountain,  indeed,  is  an  utter- 
ance of  ancient  faith,  a  worship  of  the  blessing  which 
leaps  forth  to  sunlight  out  of  the  dark  earth ;  this  faith 
has  built  the  temple.  On  a  slight  elevation  beyond  the 
fountain  is  another  ruin,  more  extensive  and  better  pre- 
served ;  it  is  claimed  by  some  to  have  been  the  temple  of 
Demeter,  Goddess  of  the  harvest,  she  who  smiled  spe- 
cially upon  this  plain.  To  her  the  Lilaeans  reaping  their 

27 


418  A    WALE  IN  HELLAS. 

grain  gave  thanks ;  it  did  not  come  of  itself,  there  was  a 
divine  power  in  it  worthy  of  adoration. 

Thus  at  some  distance  from  the  town  must  have  stood 
a  group  of  temples  sending  gleams  from  white  column 
and  pediment  far  over  the  valley  in  a  joyous  serenity ; 
Greek  temples  clustered  together  with  a  sort  of  mutual 
delight,  recognizing  each  other's  beauty,  all  reposing  on 
the  hill-side  in  the  sun.  To-day  we  seek  to  restore  them 
to  their  ancient  completeness,  and  to  find  out  what  they 
spake  over  this  valley  to  all  its  dwellers ;  we  also  try  to 
call  back  the  worshipers,  in  festal  procession  moving 
up  the  paved  Sacred  Way  to  this  consecrated  spot,  ask- 
ing them:  "With  what  in  your  hearts  do  ye  come  thither 
to  these  shrines,  O  people?  An  answer  is  given,  but 
hard  to  render  again  in  words  ;  somehow  in  this  manner 
it  runs:  "Look  across  the  sun-filled  vale,  and  blend  in 
thy  soul  its  two  qualities,  a  calm  repose,  yet  a  joyful  ex- 
altation ;  turn  about  and  glance  up  to  Parnassus ;  lofty 
he  towers  above,  yet  amid  all  his  elevation,  he  shows  a 
restful  supremacy,  like  a  deity  above  the  struggles  of 
the  world."  Such  is  the  hint  felt  to-day  in  the  situation, 
by  the  stranger ;  felt  so  deeply  by  the  old  Greek  that 
he  embodied  it  into  a  God,  and  gave  to  the  same  his  ad- 
oration ;  and  the  image  of  the  divinity  wrought  piously 
by  the  hand  of  the  ancient  artist,  sought  to  reveal  just 
this  ideal  culmination,  and  raise  to  the  same  height  the 
soul  of  the  worshiper,  blending  repose  and  -exaltation. 

Such  are  the  ruins  of  Lilsea  which  must  have  been 
once  a  large,  wealthy  city,  with  abundance  derived  from 
this  plain,  very  fertile  and  well-watered,  said  to  be  ten 
miles  across,  on  the  average.  Now  it  is  malarious,  not 
drained  to  any  extent,  and  but  partially  cultivated. 
People  have  to  flee  from  this  spot  in  summer,  and  go  up 
the  mountain ;  a  very  different  appearance  it  must  have 
presented  in  antiquity.  These  ruins  give  the  image  of 
everything  here,  of  agriculture,  of  culture  of  all  kinds. 
Yet  there  is  struggle  toward  the  better;  behold  these 
excavations  which  are  an  attempt  to  get  back  something 
of  the  old  and  combine  it  with  the  new ;  thus  there  is 
heard  a  low  whisper  of  hope  even  among  ruins. 


RAMBLES   OVER  PARNASSUS,  419 

If  you  listen  carefully,  you  will  hear  another  sound, 
the  tramp  of  armed  men  coming  down  the  mountain 
from  the  direction  of  Delphi.  Stern  is  their  tread,  stern 
their  look ;  one  will  think  that  they  have  some  strong 
purpose  in  their  hearts,  into  which  their  whole  being  is 
sunk.  They  file  along  the  paved  way  and  enter  the  sa- 
cred inclosure  where  the  temples  stand;  quickly  they 
pile  arms  and  take  their  evening  meal.  Spartans  you 
at  once  discern  them  to  be,  about  the  most  pronounced 
type  of  men  that  have  stamped  their  figures  upon  His- 
tory. Iron-souled  men  in  every  way ;  but  behold  their 
leader  who  embodies  in  triple  intensity  his  people's 
character.  To-day  they  have  marched  from  Delphi  over 
Parnassus  ;  it  is  altogether  the  most  notable  body  of  men 
that  ever  marched  in  these  mountains,  that  ever  marched 
in  the  world.  Who  are  they?  Whither  are  they  going? 

Aci'oss  the  valley  from  these  temples  is  a  hilly  ridge, 
not  high ;  it  has  a  gentle  slope  along  which  lie  sunny 
villages ;  the  summit  reposes  peacefully  in  a  soft  curve 
against  the  blue  sky,  then  turns  down  out  of  sight  on 
the  other  side.  Behind  that  ridge  is  the  Pass  of  Ther- 
mopylae, thither  these  Spartans  are  going  with  their 
leader  Leonidas ;  work  they  have  there  which  they  are 
plainly  resolved  to  perform.  The  pass  is  a  marshy  tract 
at  present,  yet  with  the  old  springs  still  gushing  up,  from 
which  it  derives  its  name.  The  ancient  description  of 
the  locality  by  Herodotus  is  quite  minute ;  streams  and 
sea-coast  have  changed,  but  the  main  points  of  the  topog- 
raphy can  be  identified  to-day. 

Most  famous  of  the  world's  heroic  deeds  of  sufferance 
in  battle  was  enacted  here ;  it  has  become  the  symbol  of 
all  patriotic  sacrifice,  and  an  inspiration  to  the  same  in 
men.  Yet  not  this  alone ;  these  people  had  in  their  ac- 
tion a  deeper  purpose  than  nationality;  unconscious  it 
was  doubtless,  still  it  was  felt  from  afar  and  strengthened 
them ;  it  was  the  whole  Occident,  our  Western  civiliza- 
tion. The  heritage  of  the  world's  development  they 
fought  for,  like  those  at  Marathon  ;  they  gave  their  lives 
for  it,  and  this  is  the  meaning  of  their  fame  ;  for  you  and 
I  must  honor  the  blood  poured  out  thousands  of  years 


420  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

ago  for  what  is  truest  and  worthiest  iu  ourselves.  Often 
has  the  deed  of  Thermopylae  been  told  us ;  but  its  repe- ' 
tition  cannot  weary,  indeed  furnishes  a  light  perpetually 
renewed ;  it  rises  into  the  heaven  of  History  like  the  sun 
which  returns  every  day  with  the  same  radiance,  and 
causes  no  weariness,  but  gives  needful  illumination. 
Such  are  all  great  deeds,  furnishing  a  yearly,  monthly, 
or  daily  light,  according  to  their  luminous  value. 

Of  rock  the  men  were  who  stood  there,  like  the  mount- 
ain under  which  they  fought ;  an  utterance  as  of  granite 
they  have,  indestructible ;  their  deed  is  this  first  most 
emphatic  expression  of  freedom :  it  is  better  to  die  than 
to  be  enslaved.  That  alternative,  now  the  most  common 
of  the  world's  commonplaces,  was  then  the  world's  new 
problem:  Freedom  or  Death.  It  was  settled  at  Ther- 
mopylae, settled  in  its  most  terrible  phase  —  Death,  quite 
to  the  last  man.  The  people  who  can  truly  make  this 
choice  have  already  won ;  whatever  becomes  of  them,  it 
is  clear,  that  they  will  not  be  the  slaves  of  a  conqueror. 
Thermopylae,  on  account  of  its  tragic  termination,  has 
wrought  more  impressively  upon  men  than  Marathon, 
with  its  victory ;  the  sacrifice  strikes  deeper  into  the  heart 
than  the  triumph. 

So  much  we  may  grant  to  Thermopylae ;  but  was  it  a 
wise  act?  To  stubbornly  die  rather  than  to  retreat  when 
it  is  wisdom  to  retreat ;  such  is  the  question  which  even 
heroism  cannot  put  down.  There  is  no  doubt  that  if  the 
policy  of  Leonidas  had  been  carried  out  during  the  whole 
Persian  war,  it  would  have  been  gloriously  unsuccessful 
for  the  Greeks.  The  Spartans  died  bravely,  it  was  a  good 
example;  but  if  the  example  had  been  followed,  there 
would  have  been  no  Greek  world,  no  Europe,  probably 
no  record  of  Thermopylae,  their  greatest  action.  But 
there  was  a  far  better  example,  Marathon,  which  showed 
equal  courage  and  devotion,  stamped  with  success,  the 
radiant  child  of  wise  endeavor.  A  glorious  death  is  well, 
and  at  times  must  be  ;  far  better,  however,  is  a  glorious 
life. 

The  deed  of  Thermopylae,  therefore,  lacks  intelligence  ; 
such  a  judgment  can  hardly  be  avoided.  The  epigram 


RAMBLES   OVER  PARNASSUS.  421 

says,  that  in  obedience  to  their  country's  laws  the  Spar- 
tans perished ;  but  like  all  epigrams  its  point  is  more  strik- 
ing than  its  truth.  It  is  impossible  to  think  that  a  Spartan 
law  forbade  the  general  to  make  a  retrograde  movement 
in  faee  of  the  enemy.  Dozens  of  cases  in  this  war  contra- 
dict the  very  notion  of  such  a  law  ;  witness  the  movements 
of  both  Eurybiades  and  Pausanias.  But  if  there  could 
have  been  a  law  of  that  kind,  Thermopylae  was  the  very 
narrowest  interpretation  of  it,  the  hide-bound  Spartan  in- 
terpretation. The  deed  of  Leonidas  is,  therefore,  tainted 
with  unwisdom,  with  an  unwisdom  which  would  have 
destroyed  Greece.  Heroic  sacrifice  it  was,  but  not  filled 
and  burning  with  reason,  which  makes  the  great  sacrifices 
of  the  world  examples  of  action,  even  objects  of  worship. 
Still  Thermopylae  is  the  great  Spartan  deed,  the  type  of 
Sparta,  showing  in  one  burning  point  her  character,  both 
in  its  highest  worth  and  in  its  narrowest  limitation. 

It  was  well  that  a  man  very  different  from  Leonidas 
and  a  city  very  different  from  Sparta  arose  to  control  the 
destinies  of  Greece :  these  were  Themistocles  the  man  of 
Intelligence,  and  Athens,  the  city  of  Intelligence.  Mighty 
is  the  transition  from  Thermopylae  toSalamis,  the  two  bat- 
tles are  two  distinct  epochs  of  the  World's  History,  two 
diverse  stages  of  human  development,  the  two  typical  deeds 
of  man.  The  Prometheus  rises  with  his  new  idea,  seen  both 
in  the  individual  and  in  the  city  :  the  thinking  Titan,  in 
authority  under  the  ruling  divinities,  in  thought  over 
them ;  but  he  must  control  in  the  end  by  his  intelligence, 
if  the  Gods  themselves  are  to  endure.  Mark  the  man  and 
his  deed ;  in  that  scene  before  the  battle  of  Salamis  it  is 
brought  out  how  his  intellect  over-arches  all,  both  Greeks 
and  Persians  ^friend  and  enemy  ;  how  he  forces  the  Greeks 
to  remain,  and  the  Persians  to  fight  when  and  where  he 
wishes  ;  thus  he  easily  spans  both  sides,  though  he  is  but 
a  subordinate  on  his  own  side ;  veritably  an  Olympian 
deed.  It  is  true  that  he  is  not  held  by  any  formal  law, 
as  Spartan  Leonidas,  nor  indeed  by  any  moral  law,  as 
Athenian  Aristides ;  he  is  above  law,  he  changes  it  and 
makes  it  for  his  own  purpose  ;  he  is  the  law-giver  now, 
uttering  it  from  his  world-historical  judgment-seat.  Thus 


422  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

he  is  the  savior  of  Greece,  because  the  man  of  intelli- 
gence, and  not  merely  of  heroism,  or  of  moral  devotion ; 
above  the  religion  of  his  time,  too,  he  clearly  places  him- 
self, for  it  was  he  who  interpreted  the  doubtful  oracle  of 
the  God  into  clear  daylight,  and  bade  the  Athenians  be- 
take themselves  to  their  wooden  walls.  An  unparalleled, 
heaven- scaling  man  —  look  at  him ! 

In  such  manner  we  run  along  in  the  groove  made  for 
all  time  by  the  Father  of  History.  Read  the  Seventh 
Book  of  his  work  ;  it  is  a  Spartan  Book,  culminating  in 
the  battle  of  Thermopylae,  with  the  death  of  Leonidas 
and  the  Three  Hundred.  A  tragic  book,  with  a  profound 
sorrow  like  that  of  a  world  passing  away ;  with  a  terror, 
too,  as  if  the  Gods  were  quitting  the  earth.  But  the 
Eighth  Book  is  an  Athenian  book,  and  recounts  the 
doings  of  Athens  and  Themistocles  at  the  battle  of  Sa- 
lamis.  What  a  change  in  the  spirit  of  Time !  Amid  all 
the  calamities  of  invasion  and  of  flight,  amid  even  the 
crackling  fires  of  burning  Athens,  there  is  the  continuous 
undertone  of  victory,  the  certainty  given  by  intelligence. 
The  Spartan  Book  shows  valor  in  a  supreme  degree,  but 
coupled  with  spiritual  blindness,  or  at  most  a  stern  ad- 
herence to  formal  law.  It  shows  what  the  outcome  of 
Spartan  leadership  must  be,  and  Sparta  is  now  leader  of 
Greece ;  the  whole  struggle  promises  to  be  a  Thermopy- 
lae —  death.  It  is  therefore  a  fearful,  fateful  Book ;  of 
dark  foreboding ;  Greece  is  a  tragedy.  But  a  new  spirit 
enters  the  following  Book ;  it  is  no  longer  the  old  law  or 
custom  or  religion  which  crushes  like  destiny ;  there  is 
asserted  the  supreme  validity  of  the  new  principle,  Intel- 
ligence. Athena,  Wisdom,  is  the  Goddess ;  no  wonder 
that  the  Athenians  after  this  war  erected  to  her  a  new 
temple  which,  in  its  ruins,  still  smiles  over  Attica  the 
smile  of  that  ancient  triumph. 

The  transition  from  Thermopylae  to  Salamis  means, 
however,  something  more  than  the  defeat  of  the  Persian ; 
it  means  also  that  the  Spartan  is  no  longer  to  have  the 
guidance  of  the  Grecian  future.  He  has  shown  that  in 
his  hands  Greece  will  perish ;  the  Spartan  ideal,  Leon- 
idas, is  dead  and  cannot  come  to  life  again,  being  slain 


RAMBLES  OVER  PARNASSUS.  423 

at  Thermopylae.  If  the  Persian  was  defeated  at  Salamis 
in  the  victory  of  Athens,  so  was  Sparta ;  she  had  to  be 
outwitted  and  conquered  by  Athens,  as  well  as  the 
Orient,  if  Greece  was  to  fulfill  her  destiny.  Mighty  is 
the  task  to  conquer  the  enemy,  still  mightier  to  conquer 
the  friend. 

Another  transition,  quite  parallel,  was  taking  place, 
though  more  gradually.  As  the  political  supremacy  was 
transferred  from  Sparta  to  Athens,  so  the  spiritual  su- 
premacy was  leaving  Delphi  and  pass;ng  to  Athens; 
Delphic  utterance  was  soon  to  become  Athenian,  where- 
by as  Literature  and  Philosophy  it  will  be  eternal.  The 
Oracle  itself  is  to  declare  that  Socrates  the  Athenian 
philosopher  is  the  wisest  of  men,  wiser  than  itself.  A 
prediction  of  its  own  end  ;  instinctive  wisdom  is  to  pass 
over  into  self-conscious  thought.  But  in  the  Persian  War 
it  still  asserted  itself  as  the  great  spiritual  center  of  the 
Hellenic  race. 

But  our  Father  of  History  is  still  Delphic  at  heart; 
the  oracles  run  through  his  work  and  can  in  nowise  be 
separated  from  its  texture  without  destroying  its  spirit ; 
they  are  an  organic  part  of  it,  indeed  they  are  its  very 
soul.  I  would  not  have  it  without  the  oracles ;  they 
show  the  consciousness  of  the  time  better  than  anything 
else ;  they  are  the  spiritual  groundwork  of  the  people, 
as  they  are  of  the  Historian's  book,  and  of  himself  too. 
It  was  a  Delphic  time,  and  we  must  throw  ourselves  into 
it,  and  be  it,  giving  ourselves  up  to  it,  just  as  that  old 
Greek  world  did  when  it  came  to  Delphi  to  consult. 

Still  the  spiritual  scission  was  taking  place,  the  break 
in  the  Greek  consciousness  was  widening  into  total  sep- 
aration, when  the  oracle  could  no  longer  keep  in  its 
sway  the  intelligence  of  the  age.  This  dualism,  too,  is 
found  in  the  Historian,  strangely;  he  laughs  at  the  am- 
biguous oracles,  yet  he  trusts  them ;  he  seems  in  many 
places  to  have  lost  his  implicit  faiih  in  the  old  myths, 
yet  he  cites  them  at  other  times  with  credence ;  then  he 
rationalizes,  interprets,  distinguishes  them,  separating 
the  true  from  the  false.  Such  is  our  Historian,  truest 
image  of  the  Time,  himself  as  well  as  his  book.  Par- 


424  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

tially  a  child  of  the  new  light,  for  a  period  resident  of 
Athens,  an  admirer  of  her  deeds  and  character :  yet  fun- 
damentally he  remains  Delphic ;  his  Athenian  culture, 
though  genuine,  does  not  pierce  to  the  core  of  his  life 
and  transform  him ;  in  his  heart  he  is  Delphic  and  be- 
longs to  the  whole  Greek  world,  rather  than  to  Athens 
specially.  This  is  the  best  reason  for  loving  his  book  to- 
day ;  it  is  true  in  a  much  deeper  sense  than  being  merely 
veracious  —  it  images  the  soul  of  the  Time.  Watch  the 
struggle  of  the  profoundly  honest  man  ;  behold  him  fall 
back  upon  the  Oracle,  after  trying  to  rise  out  of  it;  see 
him  relapse  into  the  my  thus  after  seeking  to  elevate  him- 
self above  it  by  some  reflective  process.  But  after  wan- 
dering discontentedly  for  a  time,  he  always  returns  to 
the  true  Hellas  of  his  age,  to  the  unconsciously  poetic 
world  of  Mythus  and  Oracle.  Thither  we,  too,  shall  seek 
to  return  with  him. 

Such  was  the  old  struggle  narrated  by  the  Father  of 
History,  fought  between  Greece  and  the  Orient  under 
these  hills  at  Thermopylae ;  a  desperate  struggle  re- 
sounding from  sea  and  mountain  still,  and  which  will 
resound  forever.  Yet  what  is  now  the  struggle  ?  What 
do  I  hear  on  every  side  of  me  this  moment?  It  is  the 
echo  of  the  same  conflict ;  the  Oriental  man  still  threat- 
ens Greece,  holds  in  bondage  Greek  brothers :  the  talk, 
the  cry,  the  song  is  to-day:  We  must  free  him,  let  us 
march !  A  local  election  is  taking  place  with  disso- 
nance enough ;  but  beneath  all  the  discordant  sounds  can 
be  heard  the  one  A^oice  of  Greece  in  unison.  From  these 
villages  rises  a  note  in  perfect  harmony  with  that  rising 
from  ancient  Thermopylae;  it  is  still  the  note  of  con- 
flict between  East  and  West  —  deepest,  most  abiding  con- 
flict in  the  World's  History,  celebrated  in  my  thus  by 
Homer,  narrated  in  history  by  Herodotus,  sung  now  in 
barbaric  measure  by  rude  voices  in  every  Parnassian 
wineshop.  Thus  the  old  and  the  new  blend  in  a  fierce 
martial  strain  to-day  over  the  ridge  of  Thermopylae. 

But  it  is  time  to  rid  our  thoughts  of  this  never-end- 
ing struggle  of  peoples,  and  return  to  our  old  Historian 
whom  we  love  so  well  because  he  is  Delphic ;  we  wish 


THE  DELPHIC   OEACLE.  425 

to  fall  back  with  him  into  the  instinctive  utterance  of  the 
human  soul,  into  the  oracle,  into  poetry.  He  has  made 
a  path  to  Delphi  upon  which  the  pilgrim  can  travel  back 
to  the  ancient  shrine ;  he  leads  to  the  deep  Greek  fount- 
ain heads,  which  spring  up  to  sunlight  on  the  side  of 
Parnassus.  Long  have  we  been  hovering  in  prospect  of 
the  holy  town,  serving  an  apprenticeship  of  preparation  ; 
but  the  command  now  is  to  go,  and  on  the  morrow  we 
shall  pass  thither  out  of  this  modern  life,  seeking  the 
sacred  spot  for  some  word  of  musical,  possibly  of  divine 
import:  this  is,  in  fact,  just  your  worthiest  pursuit  and 
mine.  There,  too,  is  the  spring  of  the  Muses,  welling 
forth  from  unseen  depths  its  unconscious  music ;  some 
record  of  the  visit  it  may  command.  The  final  order  is 
given ;  to-morrow  we  shall  certainly  go  to  Delphi  by  the 
straightest  road. 


XIX.   THE  DELPHIC  ORACLE. 

Long  have  we  loitered  at  Arachoba,  to  some  purpose 
it  may  be  hoped.  The  town  represents  the  old  in  the 
new  more  adequately  than  anything  we  have  yet  seen  ;  it 
gives  the  feeling  of  old  Hellenic  life  still  blooming  as  in 
the  days  of  its  youth.  The  ardent  pursuit  with  which 
the  journey  started,  has  to  a  degree  been  rewarded ; 
shadowy  images  have  been  filled  with  flesh  and  blood ; 
truly  we  may  say  that  a  deep  satisfaction  is  the  result  of 
our  stay.  Hardly  did  we  expect  so  much  at  the  begin- 
ning ;  a  great  deal  of  what  was  previously  a  dream,  is 
now  a  reality  '  but  there  remains  one  step  more  to  be 
taken,  in  order  to  complete  our  journey. 

The  longing  now  arises  to  see  the  old,  not  in  the  new 
but  in  itself,  so  far  as  there  are  any  remains  of  it  which 
we  may  be  able  to  restore  in  imagination.  Off  yonder 
round  the  slope  lies  Delphi  with  its  ruins  of  an  antique 
world ;  quite  different  from  Arachoba,  we  may  suppose 
it  to  be,  yet  in  a  strong  undertone  of  harmony  with  the 
modern  town.  There  some  image  of  antiquity,  not  in 


426  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

its  germ  as  we  saw  here,  but  in  its  perfect  development, 
may  be  hoped  for,  even  amid  its  dust ;  such  at  least  we 
are  now  going  to  seek  for  as  the  finality  and  culmination 
of  our  journey. 

Not  again  shall  we  hazard  the  lofty  way  over  Parnassus 
on  which  we  were  so  utterly  foiled  before ;  but  we  shall 
take  the  directest  road,  and  then  hereafter  from  Delphi 
we  may  venture  into  the  high  table-land  where  the  Mu- 
ses have  their  seats.  With  deep  interest  does  the  memoiy 
of  that  day  now  arise ;  just  above  me  is  the  ridge  along 
whose  comb  I  wandered  looking  for  a  place  of  descent. 
I  can  behold  now  the  lofty  eaves  of  the  mountain  temple 
from  below,  and  see  myself  there  again,  wandering  along 
the  edge.  Utterly  impossible  is  it  to  descend.  A  glance 
up  at  those  cliffs  causes  a  shudder  to  run  through  the 
body,  they  seem  monsters  which  man  cannot  control ;  let 
no  mortal  dare  explore  their  secret  ways.  Yonder  is  the 
spot  where  I  undertook  to  come  down ;  from  below  it 
plainly  shows  the  seductive  slant  to  a  steep  precipice ; 
just  at  that  point  I  came  to  the  edge  with  rolling  stones 
under  my  feet,  when  I  turned  and  caught  &  bramble, 
which  saved  this  Delphic  journey  from  the  eagles.  Still 
those  birds  are  hovering  around  the  spot ;  let  me  exult 
that  I  am  here  below ;  to-day  I  shall  not  wander  from  the 
straight  path. 

Nature,  one  can  here  feel,  has  her  uncontrollable  as- 
pect which  inspires  fear ;  many  a  demon  seems  to  be 
lurking  in  her  rayless  caverns  ready  to  rush  out  and  swal- 
low the  wanderer.  Of  old  these  mountains  must  have 
had  terror  in  them,  till  they  were  tamed  ;  that  was  indeed 
just  the  problem  —  to  tame  them.  The  Greek  grappled 
with  Nature  in  her  wildest  forms  and  reduced  her ;  such 
at  least  is  the  main  burden  of  all  his  song :  triumph  over 
Nature.  But  I  certainly  do  not  triumph  now,  looking 
up  at  the  summits ;  too  well  do  I  recollect  how  Pallas 
Athena  turned  me  back  in  the  gorge.  To-day  I  have  no 
ambition  to  grapple  with  the  mountain ;  first  I  must 
see  what  Delphi  has  done,  perchance  she  mastered  this 
Nature  and  will  furnish  to  others  the  weapons  for  its 
subjection. 


THE  DELPHIC   ORACLE.  427 

But  this  road  from  Arachoba  to  Delphi,  what  shall  the 
exalted  mood  say  to  it?  A  revelation  it  is,  or  the  begin- 
ning of  one ;  this  is  the  famous  Delphic  vale  which 
wrought  upon  the  pilgrim  as  the  initiatory  passage  to  the 
great  temple.  The  way  descends  gradually,  winding  in  a 
wavy  line  around  the  side  of  the  mountain  over  seams 
and  ridges ;  one  looks  far  below  and  wonders,  then  he 
looks  up  and  adores.  The  vision  is  drawn  out  to  an  un- 
usual breadth,  you  have  to  see  beyond  your  common  ken 
if  you  see  at  all.  The  eye  seems  pressing  outwards  as  if 
seeking  to  lose  itself  in  a  happy  harmony  with  this  Nature ; 
yet  at  the  same  time  it  turns  inwards,  subtly  beholding 
there  too  the  image,  the  spiritual  counterpart  of  this 
outer  world. 

Look  down  the  slope  afar,  there  behold  the  olive 
orchards  —  a  moving  sea  of  green  with  many  a  ripple  and 
wave,  and  even  with  grand  oceanic  swells  over  the 
ridges.  At  last  the  trees,  silver-starred,  reach  their  limit 
at  the  Pleistus,  small  meandering  stream  at  the  foot  of 
the  far-sloping  mountain.  In  the  distance  a  patch  of 
sea,  blue,  with  shimmering  crest,  steals  at  times  into  the 
vision  suddenly,  then  hides  again  among  the  hills.  Kir- 
phis  mountain  is  just  yonder,  with  the  sun  resting  upon 
its  ridges,  almost  on  a  level  with  my  path  ;  between  here 
and  there  lies  the  deep  vale.  Cannot  one  fly  across  and 
alight  on  the  other  side?  One  cannot  help  thinking  of 
flight  on  this  spot,  looking  from  mountain  to  mountain ; 
it  were  so  easy  to  sail  over  in  the  air  and  drop  on  the  oppo- 
site crest.  The  feet  grow  light  and  lift  of  themselves, 
till  one  looks  down  to  see  if  they  have  not  little  wings  like 
those  around  the  ankles  of  the  herald  Mercury.  A  strange 
feeling  as  one  goes  to  Delphi  this  morning  —  a  tendency 
to  fly,  which  comes  of  light  heels,  and  possibly  of  a 
lighter  head. 

As  we  pass  along  the  road,  ancient  foundations  come 
to  view  ;  here  must  have  been  some  one  of  those  temples 
which  the  old  traveler  saw,  as  he  came  from  the  East,  at 
the  entrance  of  Delphi. 

Athena  was  here,  Athena  Pronaia,  to  receive  sacrifice 
from  the  pilgrim  before  he  approached  the  Delphic  re- 


428  A    WALK  AV  HELLAS. 

cess  ;  shrines  to  the  heroes  who  assisted  the  Delphians 
in  their  defense  of  the  city  against  the  barbarians,  were 
somewhere  here ;  those  heroic  forms  were  once  seen  as 
divine  prodigies  appearing  on  horseback,  and  routing  the 
foe  with  utter  terror ;  thus  the  God  protected  the  center 
of  Greek  civilization.  Note  these  huge  boulders  rolled 
down  from  the  mountain  above  —  what  do  they  mean? 
Are  they  the  identical  stones  which  the  God  hurled  upon 
the  Persians  as  they  approached  his  fane  ?  I  believe  that 
they  are  the  same,  being  mentioned  by  the  Father  of 
History ;  at  least  to  the  eye  of  faith  they  will  answer 
the  same  purpose. 

Moreover  we  are  passing  through  the  cemetery  of  an- 
cient Delphi,  on  all  sides  along  the  road  reposed  her  il- 
lustrious dead.  The  old  pilgrim  had  to  make  his  en- 
trance into  Delphi  through  the  monuments  of  her  Great 
Men ;  they  were  to  live  in  his  memory  before  he  could 
behold  the  actual  city,  the  mighty  work  of  theirs  which 
endures  when  they  are  gone.  Some  sepulchres  are  cut  in 
the  mountain  wall  high  up  yonder,  quite  inaccessible  now ; 
others  are  hewn  below  the  surface  of  the  earth ;  but  most 
of  them  seem  to  have  been  stone  coffins,  which  are  lying 
scattered  through  the  Olives.  All  are  broken,  a  few  have 
sculptured  figures  upon  them,  and  many  fragments  of 
finely  chiseled  limbs  lie  about  the  field.  Just  like  Greece 
it  is,  just  like  Delphi ;  beautiful,  but  in  ruins,  —  a  broken 
sarcophagus.  I  admire  the  custom  which  the  ancients 
had  of  burying  their  dead  along  the  highway  at  the 
entrance  of  the  cit}^ ;  thus  we  pass  through  the  history 
of  the  place  and  all  its  previous  years  to  the  present 
moment,  revealed  in  the  monuments  of  its  worthiest 
examples. 

The  Sun  was  out  when  I  started,  shining  in  full  splen- 
dor at  Arachoba,  the  new  Greek  town ;  but  often  his 
face  has  been  dimmed  by  thick-coming  cloudlets  hurry- 
ing past  the  eye  toward  the  East.  The  heavens  are  full 
of  them,  flying  in  many  battalions  up  the  valley  over- 
head and  at  my  side ;  look  at  them,  trailing  across  the 
sunlit  skies  and  dropping  into  the  low  vale  down  to  the 
tree  tops.  But  in  the  West  they  have  massed  in  dense 


THE  DELPHIC   ORACLE.  429 

colulnns,  and  are  moving  forward  like  black  walls,  creased 
with  fire.  Now  it  is  raining  at  Krissa,  the  lines  of  water 
drop  from  the  heavy  clouds  to  the  earth,  they  are  com- 
ing up  this  way  and  will  soon  meet  the  approaching  way- 
farer. Darkness  increases  as  I  enter  Delphi,  the  abode 
of  the  God  of  Light ;  when  I  turn  an  angle  of  the  mount- 
ain, there  lies  the  little  village,  called  by  the  modern  name 
of  Castri,  wrapped  already  in  nebulous  gray  folds  of  falling 
showers.  I  hasten  to  that  roof  on  my  left,  half  hid  in  the 
limbs  of  old  olive  trees  ;  it  is  the  Metochi  or  cloister,  now 
tenanted  by  a  single  monk  who  receives  the  stranger  with 
generous  hospitality. 

To  the  rear  of  the  building  is  a  low-roofed  porch  look- 
ing contemplatively  down  to  the  Delphic  vale  and  toward 
the  sea.  There  one  will  sit  and  behold  the  rain  ;  before 
him  are  all  the  wonders  of  Delphic  scenery  now  danced 
over  by  light  and  shade  fluctuating  with  the  depth  of  the 
clouds.  The  mountain  rests  in  the  background,  lifting 
at  times  its  nebulous  cap  and  catching  a  few  sunbeams  on 
its  head.  But  the  storm  comes  along,  and  with  one  clash 
wipes  off  the  radiance  from  the  summits,  or  perchance  it 
is  the  wind-cloud  blowing  it  out  like  a  candle.  Then  the 
mountain  soon  relumes,  piercing  the  skies  and  bringing 
clown  the  sun  on  its  sides  to  glow  more  brightly  than  ever  ; 
but  the  illumination  lasts  but  a  moment  only,  with  re- 
doubled effort  the  black  demon  outspreads  his  wings,  en- 
veloping the  whole  landscape,  and  the  new  light  is 
extinguished  under  triple  folds  of  night.  Such  is  now  the 
Delphic  contest  between  day  and  darkness,  seen  from  the 
back  porch  of  the  low-roofed  monastery. 

The  travelej  sitting  there  will  exclaim  to  himself :  Thus 
has  Delphi  received  me,  in  storms  hinting  of  something 
beyond  ;  I  gaze  through  the  darkened  air  into  flashes  of 
sunlight  over  the  summits ;  that,  assuredly,  is  Nature's 
suggestion  of  hope.  So  the  mind  looks  through  present 
clouds  into  gleams  of  future  clearness  ;  so  may  I  look 
through  this  Nature  which  is  dark  enough  now,  into  that 
which  sprang  from  it,  which  is  clear  Delphi  resting  in 
sunlight.  This  is  indeed  the  Delphic  myst<  ry :  to  behold 
the  oracular  city  of  its  own  innate  force  springing  out  of 


430  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

the  obscure  earth  upon  this  hill-side,  and  reposing  ill  the 
light  of  the  God. 

Some  such  view  we  must  at  last  get,  if  our  visit  is  to 
mean  anything ;  though  we  have  to  stay  long  and  ques- 
tion this  dim  spot,  it  were  better  to  wait  patiently  for  the 
answer.  We  must  hear  the  oracle,  uncertain,  ambiguous 
at  first ;  but  finally  we  shall  understand  it,  for  the  God 
must  reveal  himself  in  order  to  be  a  deity.  This  prob- 
lem then  looms  up  in  the  Delphic  foreground  above  all 
others,  has  been  looming  up  during  our  entire  journey : 
What  is  the  meaning  of  the  Delphic  Oracle?  Such  is  the 
question  which,  intensified  by  this  darkened  scenery  to- 
day, haunts  us  at  every  step,  -troubles  every  thought, 
waylays  every  image,  intrudes  itself  into  every  bit  of 
landscape.  The  deep  gorge,  the  vale,  the  very  stones 
seem  to  propound  to  you  with  an  enigmatic  look :  What 
is  the  meaning  of  the  Delphic  Oracle? 

You  will  first  take  a  glance  off  into  this  Nature  before 
you,  with  its  immense  variety,  power  and  concentration  ; 
it  must  come  foremost  in  the  image,  being  the  primitive 
setting  of  the  Oracle,  and  suggesting  it:  for  what  is  the 
whole  country  with  its  seams,  chasms,  valleys,  but  one 
vast  oracular  recess,  out  of  whose  mouth  Earth,  Mother 
Gaia,  speaks  and  reveals  her  innermost  secrets?  Accord- 
ing to  ancient  legend  Earth  had  the  first  Oracle  upon  this 
spot ;  here  is  that  Oracle  still,  ready  to  deliver  its  response, 
and  uttering  the  dark  prophetic  word  of  Nature.  More- 
over you  will  notice  that  the  sun  rests  on  these  summits, 
and  rambles  through  these  dells  with  a  peculiar  rapture, 
chasing  the  shadows,  fighting  them  with  a  sort  of  trium- 
phant joy,  conscious  of  victory  like  a  God.  Dark 
Prophecy  belongs  to  the  spot,  but  so  does  Light ;  once 
they  were  warring  elements  of  Nature,  still  they  are  such 
on  certain  days,  even  to-day ;  but  they  were  anciently 
made  into  a  spiritual  union.  Prophecy  and  Light  be- 
came one  in  Apollo,  God  of  Wisdom.  Such  was  the  old 
Delphic  Mythus  wrought  by  the  Poet  and  sung  at  the 
festival ;  fragments  of  it,  under  several  forms  have  come 
down  to  us. 

But  we   must  not  think  that  Nature  made  the  Delphic 


THE  DELPHtC   OUACLE.  431 

man ;  the  latter  made  it  quite  as  much.  He  seized  it, 
formed  it  into  an  utterance  of  what  was  deepest  in  him, 
and  thus  created  an  image  of  his  spiritual  being ;  for  it  is 
spirit  that  is  in  him  and  driving  him  to  seek  expression. 
Here  was  doubtless  his  earliest  expression,  in  this  dark 
oracular  Earth  whom  he  questions,  wishing  to  know. 
The  rude  response  of  Nature  is  given ;  but  it  has  to  be 
transformed  into  clear  utterance,  and  he  does  the  work, 
which  thus  becomes  beautiful ;  so  Art  leaps  forth,  new- 
born, transfigured  from  these  rocks.  You  can  still  im- 
agine it  springing  up  like  a  flower  on  this  hill-side  —  that 
old  Delphic  world  with  its  culture  and  beauty  breaking 
out  of  the  bosom  of  the  earth,  Mother  Gaia's  bosom,  and 
spreading  its  fair  petals  in  the  sunshine.  But  that  is  not 
all ;  in  the  image  of  Delphi  we  can  behold  entire  Greece 
unfolding  into  its  glories  ;  the  whole  soil  of  Hellas  trans- 
mutes itself  into  a  garden,  whose  typical  flower  is  the 
Delphic  one. 

The  visitor  cannot  help  thinking  that  this  was  an  an- 
cient seat  of  instinctive  wisdom  which  broadened  out  so  as 
to  include  quite  every  Grecian  land.  The  Hellenic  race 
must  have  found  its  first  elevated  expression  here.  Wise 
men  dwelt  at  Delphi  and  were  in  some"  very  intimate  rela- 
tion with  the  entire  Greek  kinship.  Not  a  provincial 
oracle  by  any  means  was  the  Delphic  one,  but  it  uttered 
prophetic  words  for  the  Greco- Asiatic,  for  the  Greco- 
Italic  stock ;  from  Lydia  in  the  East,  from  Rome  in  the 
West,  very  remote  relationships  of  the  Hellenic  peoples, 
its  decrees  were  sought  and  respected.  Deep  and  dark 
down  into  the  very  roots  of  the  Aryan  race  does  the 
Delphic  influence  extend,  blossoming  forth  to  the  Sun  on 
the  slope  of  the  mountain. 

But  chiefly  as  the  center  of  the  widely  scattered  Greek 
communities,  as  the  profound  tie  which  bound  together 
remote  colonies  in  Asia,  Italy,  Africa,  must  we  regard 
this  influence.  In  the  Delphic  Oracle  the  Greek  race  felt 
its  oneness  from  the  most  distant  rim  of  settlements ;  and 
the  Oracle  in  turn  planted  itself  upon  this  oneness,  pro- 
moted the  same,  gave  it  expression.  Harmony  the  Oracle 
sought  to  bring  into  this  mass  of  seething  Greek  energy; 


432  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

peace  between  the  people  of  Greek  blood  was  upheld  by 
its  holy  responses ;"  but  chiefly  it  maintained  Hellenic 
civilization  against  barbarism.  All  this  came  from  a 
deep-seated  feeling  of  unity  in  the  Greek  race,  felt  in  its 
full  intensity,  and,  as  it  were,  bursting  forth  from  the 
earth  here  at  Delphi. 

This  was  truly  the  divine  attribute  of  the  Oracle,  the 
unifying  power  exerted  upon  these,  early  Greeks  rest- 
lessly centrifugal ;  it  held  them  by  the  deepest  and  sub- 
tlest tie,  the  instinct  of  brotherhood.  Hence  it  was  hoty, 
it  healed  the  wounds,  it  made  Greece  whole ;  it,  giving 
voice  and  authority  to  the  common  bond  of  kinship, 
stopped  the  murderous  hands  of  kindred,  or  furnished 
otherwise  relief  to  the  troubled  states.  It  was  the  point 
of  union  of  the  Hellenic  world,  thus  it  was  worthy  of  wor- 
ship. What  is  holy,  asks  Goethe,  but  that  which  binds 
many  souls  together? 

Was  1st  heilig?     Das  ist's  was  viele  Seelen  zusammen 
Bindet;  band'  es  auch  nur  leicht,  wie  die  Binse  den  Kranz. 

In  the  God  and  his  responses  the  Greeks  felt  their 
common  brotherhood ;  and  the  God  too  felt  it,  and  gave 
it  utterance.  That  utterance  was  the  golden  word  of 
unity,  harmony ;  such  was  the  universal  purport  of  the 
Oracle.  So  from  Delphi  secret  threads  went  out  over  all 
Hellas  whose  aspirations  and  fears  and  calamities  pulsed 
back  to  this  spot  as  the  heart  of  the  whole  people.  The 
most  sensitive  part  of  the  great  Hellenic  body  was  at 
Delphi,  and  received  impressions  from  every  member, 
which  were  then  to  be  attuned  to  the  one  Hellenic  soul. 
To  keep  each  community  in  harmony  with  the  rest,  to 
have  the  whole  before  the  eye,  and  to  adjust  the  warring 
parts  to  the  whole  —  such  was  the  function  of  Delphi. 

The  Oracle  is,  therefore,  a  voice,  voice  of  the  Greek 
God,  telling  what  is  best  for  Hellas.  For  has  not  this 
Greek  people  a  voice  as  of  one  person,  and  a  reason  back 
of  that  voice?  There  is,  indeed,  one  Hellenic  soul  in 
which  every  Greek  participates ;  it  is  his  greatest  truth, 
upon  this  truth  the  Oracle  plants  itself,  having  in  its  vision 


THE  DELPHIC   ORACLE.  433 

the  whole,  not  the  part  simply ;  no  individual  end  as 
against  the  universal  one  can  it  favor  without  losing  its 
divinity.  Conceive  the  widely  scattered  limbs  of  Greece 
to  be  one  body,  give  to  this  body  a  soul,  endow  the  soul 
with  a  voice  —  that  voice  is  the  Oracle  uttering  the  truth 
of  Hellas  to  Hellas. 

Every  Greek,  therefore,  had  the  Oracle  within  him,  and 
at  the  same  time  without  him  ;  his  true  self-hood  is  not 
merely  his  own  self,  but  is  universal,  and  reaches  up  to 
his  God.  But  in  what  form  is  this  Universal  to  be  uttered  ? 
That  is  the  supreme  difficulty  for  a  people  not  yet  arrived 
at  a  self-conscious  expression  in  thought.  It  must,  ac- 
cordingly, assume  impure  forms,  starting  from  Nature  — 
from  exhalations,  convulsions,  ecstasies,  and  rising  into 
the  dream,  the  vision,  the  oracle.  An  honest  attempt, 
but  inadequate ;  often  so  inadequate  that  it  seems  mere 
jugglery.  But  never  forget  the  truth  in  it:  it  is  a  sincere 
effort  to  express  what  is  universal  in  the  Greek  soul;  still 
the  expression  is  imperfect  in  form ;  therefore  this  form 
must  be  finally  cast  away.  Hence,  too,  the  Oracle  is 
often  ambiguous ;  it  will  be  consulted  upon  matters 
which  do  not  lie  within  its  province,  and  which  it  can 
have  no  feeling  about ;  what  response  can  it  give  ?  Only 
an  ambiguous  one,  which  must  be  interpreted  by  the  per- 
son who  receives  it;  thus  the  Oracle  says:  Determine 
this  matter  for  yourself,  it  is  not  my  duty  to  decide  for 
you.  Ambiguity,  therefore,  throws  back  the  decision 
upon  the  responsible  man.  Still  there  were  many  oracles 
whose  purport  was  plain ;  these  were  the  true  voice  of  the 
God,  not  the  shirking  ambiguous  utterance,  which  is  the 
seed  of  death  in  the  Oracle. 

The  wise  men  of  Delphi  can  hardly  be  called  far-sighted 
statesmen  consciously  furthering  the  great  plan  of  Hel- 
lenic unity.  Still  less  are  they  to  be  considered  as  a 
band  of  cunning  priests  living  from  the  deception  of 
mankind.  They  performed  a  true  function  for  their 
people ;  they  saw  in  vision  and  uttered  instinctively  what 
should  be  done  for  the  totality,  since  all  Greece  had  her 
center  of  emotion  in  the  Oracle.  It  was  a  vision  enrap- 
tured, prophetic — it  was  the  feeling  of  what  was  best  for  the 

28 


434  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

entire  Hellenic  stock.  Conscious  ratiocination  there  was 
probably  not  much,  it  was  the  instinctive  sympathy  with 
the  whole,  setting  <5n  fire  the  Imagination  and  breaking 
into  rapturous  utterance,  at  times  very  enigmatic,  but  at 
times  clear-sighted  enough.  Purified  were  these  prophets 
often  till  their  instincts  reflected  a  true  image  of  the  in- 
nermost essence  of  Greek  spirit ;  not  as  an  operation  of 
reason,  but  as  the  gift  of  immediate  insight. 

I  am  well  aware  that  the  common  Understanding 
scouts  this  process,  that  modern  science  with  its  syllo- 
gism of  experience  seeks  to  explain  a  half  and  to  throw 
away  the  other  and  better  half.  Inaccessible  is  the  Or- 
acle to  a  mind  solely  working  in  the  categories  of  Formal 
Logic  or  of  Inductive  Process,  though  there  is  a  logic 
which  recognizes  it  fully,  and  says  that  the  oracular 
power  must  exist  as  a  phase  of  human  intelligence.  A 
cunning  priestcraft  is  the  explanation  commonly  given, 
priestcraft  based  at  times  upon  wise  policy  and  foresight, 
at  times  upon  selfish  gain  —  still  always  a  form  of  priest- 
craft :  such  is  the  explanation  of  the  Understanding.  I 
do  not  believe  it ;  the  Oracle  uttered  truth,  the  prophets 
saw  truth.  Woe  had  it  been  unto  them,  if  they  had  ut- 
tered falsehood  to  their  race. 

Indeed  any  explanation,  so  called,  of  the  oracular  pro- 
cess is  likely  to  be  unsatisfactory.  The  thing  when  ex- 
plained is  no  longer  oracular  ;  to  be  oracular  it  must  re- 
main inexplicable.  Explanation  seeks  to  identify  the 
known  and  the  unknown  through  some  middle  term  ;  but 
the  intuition  of  the  Oracle  has  no  middle  term,  it  is  im- 
mediate, it  is  the  direct  vision  of  the  object  without  the 
mean  of  the  reasoning  process ;  if  the  mean  be  found, 
then  it  is  not  the  oracular  process.  But  that  which  we 
can  do  and  have  already  done,  is  to  state  the  content,  the 
purport  of  the  Oracle ;  this  is  the  unity  of  all  Greece,  its 
universal  principle,  seen  and  uttered  instinctively. 

Animism  is  now  the  favorite  word  of  explanation  ;  the 
Oracle  is  traced  to  an  original  tendency  in  man  to  see 
ghosts.  Turn  about  the  statement  rather;  ghosts  are 
called  forth  by  the  Oracle,  not  the  Oracle  by  ghosts. 
That  universal  spirit  of  Hellas  is  first  in  the  Greek  man,  and 


THE  DELPHIC   ORACLE.  435 

takes  on  many  forms ;  among  others,  those  of  ghosts, 
visions,  oracles.  The  highest  form,  however,  is  the  self- 
conscious,  self-clear  reason,  in  which  the  universal  spirit 
sees  itself  purely  and  comprehends  itself.  But  so  far 
Delphi  never  went,  —  nor  have  we  yet ;  therefore,  let  us 
snap  the  thing  off  with  a  sentence :  Animism  cannot  ex- 
plain the  Oracle,  the  Oracle  rather  explains  Animism,  in 
one  of  its  phases. 

The  Pythia's  wild  ejaculations  were  put  into  form  by 
the  priests ;  it  is  manifest  that  these  priests  had  the  most 
important  share  in  the  utterance.  They  were  seers,  too, 
they  saw  what  the  totality  of  Hellas  demanded  ;  the  mere- 
ly natural  effect  of  the  earth's  exhalation  upon  the  Pythia 
was  a  chaotic  babble  like  that  of  Gaia  herself ;  but  they 
reduced  it  to  order,  indeed  they  threw  a  Greek  harmony 
into  her  wild  and  whirling  words  by  an  hexametral  rhythm. 
Every  oracle,  therefore,  went  through  the  whole  Delphic 
process ;  it  began  with  the  dark  shapeless  suggestion  of 
Nature,  and  was  elevated  into  the  form  and  expression  of 
spirit.  Such  was  the  true  function  of  the  priest:  to  bring 
the  known  out  of  the  dim  recess  of  the  unknown,  and  to 
transform  it  into  an  utterance  for  man.  In  the  same  way 
the  Greek  everywhere  enters  into  Nature  and  transforms 
her ;  the  priestly  duty  is  in  perfect  consonance  with  all 
that  is  deepest  in  Greek  spirit.  Noble  was  the  function 
of  the  God,  in  all  ways  divine  ;  hence  its  authority  rested 
in  every  Greek  soul.  Foreign  wise  men  were  also  cele- 
brated at  Delphi,  and  their  sayings  were  set  up  in  the 
vestibule  of  the  temple.  Wisdom  was  here,  instinctive, 
spontaneous ;  the  people  of  Delphi  knew  their  own  po- 
sition and  called  their  town  the  navel  of  the  world. 

Such  was  the  early  genuine  Delphi ;  but  it  did  not  re- 
main thus.  It  had  aided  the  unity  of  the  Greeks  in  the 
wars  against  the  Persians,  and  in  such  action  was  true  to 
itself.  But  the  time  came  when  Hellas  was  split  in  twain, 
and  the  Oracle  had  to  take  sides  with  Greek  against 
Greek.  During  the  Peloponnesian  war  it  favored  the 
Spartans  against  the  Athenians  ;  thus  the  Oracle  was  rent 
in  the  grand  disruption  of  Hellas  ;  the  unity  upon  which 
it  reposed  and  to  which  it  owed  its  influence  was  destroyed. 


436  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

Delphi  no  longer  felt  for  the  whole  of  Greece  but  only  for 
a  part ;  it  ceased  to  command  the  worship  and  the  con- 
fidence of  the  Pan-Hellenic  world.  At  that  unhappy 
period  it  was  no  longer  holy,  it  did  not  unite  but  rather 
dismembered.  From  this  time  Delphi  declines. 

Still  it  shows  the  inner  scission  of  the  Greek  conscious- 
ness. Athens,  the  intelligent  half,  breaks  loose  from 
Delphi,  and  marches  forward  to  a  self-conscious  utter- 
ance in  philosophy;  Sparta,  the  backward  half,  remains 
Delphic  and  clings  to  the  utterance  in  prophecy.  Still  a 
new  utterance  has  arisen  ;  our  Socrates,  whom  even  Del- 
phi pronounced  the  wisest  of  men,  is  really  the  new  Del- 
phic Oracle,  and  supplants  the  old  one.  The  inner  spirit- 
ual unity  of  Greece  is  lost,  in  true  correspondence  is  the 
outer  political  unity,  sunk  now  in  strife  and  hate.  But 
those  early  days  when  this  hill-side  was  the  organic  center 
of  the  vast  energetic  Greek  body,  the  heart  to  which  and 
from  which  throbbed  all  the  hopes  of  the  Greek  race,  are 
the  glory  of  Delphi,  and  form  the  period  with  which  the 
sympathetic  traveler  still  seeks  to  place  himself  in  har- 
mony. 

But  the  rain  has  passed  over,  and  the  sun  is  rapidly 
driving  the  broken  clouds  out  of  the  Delphic  vale,  which 
wears  now  a  laugh  of  triumph.  Let  us  leave  the  cloister ; 
this  brook  at  our  side  comes  from  the  fount  of  Castalia, 
bubbling  forth  just  at  the  mouth  of  yonder  gorge. 
Pass  by  the  musical  spring  for  the  present,  and  enter  the 
gorge ;  it  is  the  identical  one  through  which  some  time 
ago  I  undertook  to  reach  Delphi,  when  Pallas  held  my 
arm.  Follow  the  chasm  as  far  as  you  can,  till  it  grows 
dark  and  full  of  shadows ;  something  of  awe  you  will  feel 
at  this  remarkable  work  of  Nature.  No  wonder  that  Gaia, 
Mother  Earth,  had  her  first  rude  Oracle  upon  this  spot, 
one  will  think  in  this  very  cleft  perchance.  Something 
indeed  she  says  here,  vague,  wild,  chaotic ;  you  share  in 
some  struggle  of  forces  pent  up  and  as  yet  undeveloped. 
An  attempt  at  utterance  one  feels  rather  than  hears  —  a 
deep,  speechless  throb  which  dimly  foretells  the  day  of 
utterance.  At  times  one  is  quaked  by  the  rugged  pulsa- 
tion ;  it  is  Trophonius  in  his  cave  once  more,  but  not  des- 


THE  DELPHIC  ORACLE.  437 

tined  to  stay  there.  A  shape  in  the  rocks  above  stretches 
out  like  a  mighty  arm,  then  it  assumes  a  monstrous  half 
face  ;  Atlas  it  seems  to  be  now,  with  stooped  shoulder,  bear- 
ing the  earth-ball  of  Gaia  herself.  Chiefly  the  deep  rift, 
sliced  down  into  the  very  heart  of  Gaia,  as  if  to  lay  open 
her  first  secrets  —  that  is  the  marvel ;  the  heart  you  will 
call  it,  rude,  made  of  rock,  with  dim  fantastic  shapes 
bodied  into  it ;  still  the  heart  throbs,  and  you  feel  its  pul- 
sations trembling  through  you. 

Go  up  yet  further ;  ancient  steps  have  been  hewn  into 
the  solid  rock ;  in  old  days  one  could  ascend  this  wild 
rift  and  feel  the  might  of  its  deity.  The  walls  of  the 
gorge  are  very  close  together.  The  place  is  darkened 
as  it  were  for  some  awful  presence.  Notice  again  the 
cliff  above,  Nature  is  there  making  a  huge,  seamed,  un- 
couth face,  yet  distinct  as  the  stone  itself ;  she  is  making 
many  faces  at  you,  the  stone  changes  to  capricious  grim- 
aces. Now  it  is  Pan,  followed  by  his  rude  choir,  chasing 
over  the  rock  walls ;  it  is  the  realm  of  wild,  disordered 
fancy ;  it  is  the  world  of  caprice  which  the  human  soul 
must  pass  through,  and  then  leave  behind  in  the  dim 
recess. 

You  will  therefore  not  remain  with  Gaia,  nor  did  Del- 
phi remain  with  her  in  the  dark  chasm,  with  her  dark 
suggestions.  Out  of  the  dim  cavity  the  Oracle  too  must 
come  into  the  realm  of  Apollo,  God  of  Light.  Not  with- 
out a  struggle  did  the  God  obtain  the  prophetic  spot ; 
he  had  to  slay  the  serpent  Python,  couched  in  this  gorge 
and  ready  to  devour  too  often  the  followers  of  the  dark 
chaotic  oracles  of  Mother  Gaia.  Such  is  the  legend  which 
hints  the  great  Delphic  transition  ;  a  far-off  adumbration 
of  ancient  pre-historic  struggle  one  can  discern  in  the 
mythus  ;  or,  if  you  wish,  it  may  be  taken  as  an  utterance 
of  all  struggle  out  of  Nature  to  the  Higher.  For  the  God 
of  Light  must  slay  the  serpent  Python  lying  in  the  dark 
chasm  and  guarding  the  primitive  oracles  of  Mother  Gaia : 
all  culture  demands  it ;  Delphi  has  given  her  own  greatest 
change  in  the  advent  of  Apollo,  and  the  slaughter  of  the 
serpent,  woven  into  a  Delphic  fable,  which  is  born 
into  your  soul  upon  this  spot. 


438  A    WALK  IN  BELLAS. 

But  as  you  pass  out  of  the  gorge  into  the  light,  here 
is  Castalia,  fount  of  the  Muses.  It  is  a  new  world  ;  note 
how  all  has  been  transformed,  how  Nature  at  once  leaps 
out  of  Chaos  into  things  of  beauty.  A  basin  with  steps 
in  it  holds  the  fair  flowing  water ;  a  temple  rose  over  it  in 
antiquity ;  statues  stood  in  the  niches  above.  The  gorge 
was  suddenly  transformed:  this  is  the  grand  Delphic 
transformation.  Wash  in  the  spring;  it  purified  the 
ancient  priestess  that  she  might  give  a  Delphic  response ; 
then  it  became  in  its  own  beauty  a  weighty  utterance  on 
this  hill-side,  nay  it  became  the  inspiration  and  symbol  of 
all  beautiful  utterance  for  all  time ;  Castftlia  is  still  in- 
voked as  the  source  of  the  Muses,  melodious  givers  of 
song. 

And,  strange  to  say,  the  traveler  feels  the  new  influ- 
ence, he  cannot  keep  himself  from  becoming  rhythmical; 
his  body  moves  with  a  novel  stride  which  he  cannot  ac- 
count for,  his  feelings  are  attuned  to  an  unaccustomed 
music,  he  has  to  march  to  an  unknown  irresistible  har- 
mony. A  Delphic  change  is  going  on  within  —  a 
rhythmical  attuuement  of  soul ;  life  and  nature  are  mov- 
ing together  in  a  Greek  chorus.  Behold  the  situation  of 
the  town  resting  in  the  mountains  in  the  form  of  a  theater 
overlooking  the  vale,  overlooking  the  world.  Yonder 
was  the  temple ;  its  foundations  still  peer  forth ;  it  too 
repeats  the  same  harmony  as  Castalia,  the  whole  mountain 
side  echoes  the  same  harmony  rising  from  every  ruin  of 
the  old  city. 

Here,  then,  we  shall  stay  ;  clearly  we  have  come  to  the 
great  goal  of  our  pilgrimage.  These  Delphic  harmonies 
must  be  traced  in  their  details,  still  more  they  must 
be  felt  often  and  be  allowed  to  sink  deep  into  the 
soul.  This  is  not  the  work  of  one  day,  nor  of  one  week ; 
certainly  there  is  no  task  in  life  which  is  to  be  done  be- 
fore this ;  eternity  itself  would  seem  to  be  lost  unless 
filled  with  these  divine  harmonies.  The  melodious  secret 
must  be  sought  and  taken  up  into  existence,  if  possible ; 
we  must  know  what  that  secret  is,  or  find  out  that  we 
cannot  know  it ;  such  is  our  first  Delphic  duty.  At  least 
this  rhythmical  gait  must  walk  itself  into  exhaustion,  and 


THE  DELPUIG    TOWN.  439 

this  keen  musical  feeling  must  become  blunt  in  its  own 
excess  of  enjoyment,  ere  we  shall  be  willing  to  quit  the 
presence  of  the  Oracle. 

Such  is  the  fragment  of  the  first  Delphic  day,  glorious 
enough ;  but  where  can  one  find  lodgment  in  this  village, 
now  so  small  and  poor  ?  The  monastery  cannot  be  a  con- 
genial abode  for  a  Greek-minded  person ;  though  very 
hospitable,  it  hints  of  too  much  which  is  discordant  with 
ancient  Hellenic  life.  On  my  way  from  the  Castaliau 
spring,  I  meet  a  good  old  man,  grey-haired  Paraskevas, 
who  tells  me  that  he  is  in  search  of  me,  having  heard  of 
the  arrival  of  a  stranger.  He  offers  me  a  share  of  his  hut ; 
he  has  bhthkets  to  spread  on  the  floor  to  keep  his  guest 
warm,  he  will  make  the  cot  alongside  of  the  fire-place,  he 
can  furnish  a  frugal  meal  of  black  bread,  beans  and  wine, 
with  some  meat  occasionally.  A  generous  offer  ;  never 
will  the  traveler  forget  aged  Paraskevas,  veteran  of  the 
Greak  Revolution,  now  passing  his  sunset  at  Delphi.  His 
abode  lies  in  the  sacred  inclosure  of  the  old  temple  ;  ruins 
peer  forth  from  the  soil  on  every  hand ;  walls  with  in- 
scriptions run  before  the  very  entrance  of  his  door.  A 
few  steps  from  his  threshold  lies  the  drum  of  a  column  ; 
upon  it  one  can  sit  down  and  overlook  the  Delphic  vale. 
A  bargain  is  struck  for  an  indefinite  time ;  I  can  easily 
foresee  that  my  stay  will  not  be  short.  .  Food  and  shelter 
thus  come  to  me  providentially  —  the  rest  of  the  Delphic 
repast  will  be  furnished  by  the  Gods.  It  is  a  new  feeling 
indeed,  a  mild,  hopeful  joy  at  this  fresh  intimacy  with  the 
antique  world.  I  enter  the  hut  with  a  slight  stoop  of  the 
head,  and  lie  down  beside  the  hearth  to  rest  for  the  night : 
to-morrow  the  days  of  Delphi  will  begin. 


XX.   THE  DELPHIC  TOWN. 

The  history  of  Delphi  is  a  history  of  the  spiritual  life  of 
Greece.  The  social  and  political  changes  of  the  country 
took  place  elsewhere,  but  their  inner  significance  is  best 


440  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

imaged  in  the  mutations  of  the  Delphic  Oracle  from  its  early 
importance  to  its  cessation.  It  was  the  intense  spiritual 
center ;  to  it  the  fresh  Greek  problem  was  always  pre- 
sented for  solution  ;  it  had  to  give  some  response,  often 
uncertain  enough.  Over  a  thousand  years  we  know  that 
it  was  consulted,  and  probably  much  longer.  During 
that  time  its  history  would  be  the  best  reflection  of  the 
Greek  consciousness,  had  we  anything  like  a  complete 
record  of  its  eventful  moments. 

Now  can  we  get  an  image  of  the  old  town,  an  image 
true  yet  not  detailed,  which  will  tell  its  own  meaning? 
Not  a  mere  picture  of  the  fancy,  I  mean,  but  an  image 
which  is  an  utterance  of  the  real  thing  at  Delphi,  which 
in  its  own  visage  reveals  what  lies  back  of  it  and  created 
it.  Such  an  image  becomes  laden  with  profound  signifi- 
cance, with  the  very  profoundest,  of  a  nation  or  age,  and 
speaks  as  nothing  else  can.  Thus,  too,  great  monuments 
ought  to  speak;  thus  they  do  speak,  if  read  aright. 
Delphi  is  full  of  ruins  ;  they  are  still  an  expression  of  that 
old  world  —  in  fact  just  the  true  expression  of  it,  if  they 
be  made  to  tell  their  secret.  Such  is  now  our  vocation : 
to  compel  their  utterance,  if  we  can  ;  accordingly  let  us 
begin  during  these  sunny  days  to  ramble  among  the  stones 
of  Delphi,  and  listen  to  their  broken  speech.  Not  with 
the  pains-taking  research  of  the  antiquarian  shall  we  make 
the  round,  but  chiefly  solicitous  about  the  thing  said  or 
intended  to  be  said  by  the  monuments.  Can  we  hear  the 
voice  of  the  Delphic  stones  and  put  it  into  words  ?  It  is 
not  a  slight  task,  but  it  must  be  attempted. 

The  sojourner  will,  therefore,  settle  down  to  his  occu- 
pation, perceiving  that  he  has  no  small  enterprise  in 
hand.  Chiefly  let  him  feel  that  the  work  is  not  to  be  done 
in  haste ;  indeed,  forcing  of  any  sort  will  spoil  the  whole 
result ;  leisurely  loving  assimilation  is  the  only  method  of 
reaching  the  Delphic  heart.  It  is  not  with  him  a  subject 
of  erudite  search,  of  antiquarian  lore ;  still  he  must  or- 
ganize his  studies,  which  will  naturally  fall  into  certain 
divisions  ;  he  will  consider  the  Delphic  town,  now  repre- 
sented by  ruins,  in  its  various  parts.  These  ruins  he 
will  dwell  among,  listening  first  to  their  separate  voices ; 


THE  DELPHIC   TOWN.  441 

then  he  will  seek  to  find  the  common  note  in  them  all. 
He  will  also  cast  a  glance  every  day  into  the  physical 
background  of  the  town. 

Already  we  have  had  much  to  say  about  the  aspect  of 
Nature  at  Delphi ;  yet  we  have  by  no  means  said  enough ; 
it  must  never  be  left  out  of  the  vision.  Nature  is  indeed 
the  oldest  monument  of  Delphi,  and  the  best  preserved : 
little  change  has  come  over  it  since  the  beginning  of  the 
Oracle.  It  has  its  own  ancient  note  still,  that  is  the  key- 
note ;  it  whispers  the  same  to-day  as  yesterday,  and 
vaguely  hints  wherewith  it  is  to  be  filled.  The  most  in- 
definite perchance,  still  it  is  the  most  enduring  of  Delphic 
memorials  and  always  in  the  background. 

What  strikes  the  observer  at  once  is  the  immense  va- 
riety of  Nature  within  a  small  space.  Earth  seems  to 
have  centered  all  her  diversity  at  this  spot,  and  therein  to 
have  attained  a  sort  of  universality  just  here ;  no  wonder 
then  that  she  was  the  first  divinity  of  the  ancient  Delphians. 
You  behold  mountain  and  plain,  sea  and  valley,  with  the 
eternal  interplay  of  clouds  and  skies  ;  all  the  seasons  with 
their  various  vegetation  are  within  eye-shot ;  rudest  as- 
pect of  rocks  with  mildest  repose  of  fields  sport  through 
the  range  of  the  same  glance.  Such  is  the  intense  con- 
centration of  Nature,  yet  ever  in  movement  too,  like 
Time  itself.  But  there  is  no  confusion,  on  the  contrary 
everything  has  its  chosen  place,  and  the  whole  moves  for- 
ward in  quiet  harmony.  Day  by  day  you  will  watch  the 
landscape,  study  it  with  new  wonder,  till  the  feeling  of  it 
sinks  deep  within  you,  and  you  will  exclaim:  This  is 
indeed  the  center  of  the  earth.  So  the  old  Delphians  felt 
when  they  showed  in  their  town  the  omphalos  or  navel  of 
the  world.  That  was  but  an  utterance  of  their  faith,  and 
it  still  may  be  taken  as  the  utterance  of  Nature  to-day. 

Yet  it  is  strange  that  the  ancients  had  no  landscape 
artists  in  our  sense  of  the  term.  Small  bits  of  scenery 
seem  to  float  through  those  pictures  of  Polygnotus  in  the 
Lesche,  but  there  were  then  no  painters  of  landscape,  nor 
any  writers  of  landscape,  such  as  we  have  now  in  excess. 
Shall  we  say  that  anciently  there  was  no  love  of  Nature 
on  these  hill-sides  —  love  of  Nature  for  its  own  sake? 


442  A  WALK  IN  IIELLA&. 

The  truth  is,  the  ancient  Greek  man  had  more  of  it  than  we 
have  and  he  lived  more  near  to  Nature ;  in  fact  he  was  too 
much  a  part  of  the  same  to  distinguish  himself  fully  from 
it.  To  stand  back  and  admire  Nature,  demands  separa- 
tion from  it  in  the  admirer ;  not  so  free  from  its  immediate 
influence  was  the  Greek  as  we  are,  it  is  in  his  soul  more 
deeply.  Therein  lies  the  very  source  of  his  art:  Nature 
was  not  separated  from  spirit,  but  in  a  most  intimate, 
triumphant  harmony  with  it. 

So  Nature  becomes  filled  with  Spirit,  and  is  trans- 
formed from  her  primitive  rudeness,  being  made  into  the 
image  of  mind.  Thus  Art  springs  up,  for  Art  is  Nature 
transfigured.  This  transfiguration  of  Nature  is  the  most 
beautiful,  if  not  the  most  important,  step  in  the  history 
of  mankind.  It  took  place  on  this  hill-side,  for  the  Del- 
phic city  is  the  center  and  outgrowth  of  the  surrounding 
nature.  Here  are  the  ruins,  the  remains  of  that  ancient 
transfiguration  of  Nature ;  let  us  traverse  them,  and  try 
to  hear  what  they  report. 

Delphi  lies  on  the  mountain  slope  in  a  small  depres- 
sion of  a  semi-circular  form  ;  the  site  has  often  been  com- 
pared to  a  theater.  You  will  say,  after  some  inspection, 
that  the  town  rests  in  the  very  eye  of  the  landscape,  is  its 
eye's  apple  in  fact.  The  peculiarities  of  the  Delphic 
territory  are  concentrated  at  this  point,  ready  to  burst 
forth  into  new  forms.  The  city  springs  from  the  un- 
wonted travail  of  the  earth ;  buildings  rise  up  from  the 
slope,  telling  even  in  their  ruins  the  Delphic  secret.  Let 
us  go  through  them  in  order. 

(1.)  Gymnasium.  Still  many  remains  of  this  building 
are  visible ;  it  was  upon  the  site  where  the  Metochi  or 
cloister  now  stands.  Thick  walls  of  cut  stone  appear, 
inside  of  which  the  chapel  is  at  present ;  scattered  about 
are  fragments  of  columns,  of  architectural  ornaments, 
of  reliefs.  A  broken  world,  yet  capable  of  being  put  to- 
gether again  —  for  it  was  not  a  caprice,  but  a  severe,  even 
logical  development  of  forms.  This  structure  was  a 
principal  one  of  the  town,  indeed  of  every  Greek  town, 
an  integral  element  of  communal  life.  What  then  was 
done  here  ? 


THE  DELPHI G   TOWN.  443 

This  was  the  place  of  education,  we  may  call  it  the 
Greek  school-house  ;  yet  very  different  things  were  taught 
there  from  what  we  teach  in  such  a  place.  It  is  the 
house  of  training,  but  the  first  thing  to  be  trained  in 
man  is  his  natural  part,  his  body.  Such  is  the  primary 
function  of  Greek  education :  to  transfigure  that  physical 
element  which  belongs  to  him,  then  he  can  pass  beyond 
his  body  and  reduce  nature.  Thus  he  elevates  his  own 
frame  into  a  work  of  art,  making  it  transparent  with  his 
own  will,  the  beautiful  implement  which  not  only  sub- 
serves but  also  clearly  images  his  intelligence. 

From  this  educational  basis  sprang  much  which  be- 
longs peculiarly  to  the  Greek  man.  First  of  all,  health, 
the  harmonious  working  of  the  members  of  the  body ; 
it  thus  becomes  truly  an  organism  in  which  there  is  no 
jar.  Health  he  had  and  cherished,  for  health  is  har- 
mony and  attunes  the  world  to  harmony.  The  Greek 
leaves  everywhere  the  impression  of  health,  no  dyspep- 
tic outbursts  and  no  hysteric  jerkiness,  but  health  The 
Greek  Literature  has  this  glory  of  health;  struggle, 
despair,  death,  it  has — but  the  death  is  a  healthy  one. 
Therefore,  if  he  keep  his  Greek  harmony,  he  must  train 
the  body,  to  which  then  he  may  attune  all.  Here  is  the 
training-school,  first  step  of  Greek  education,  yet  never 
laid  aside  —  for  old  as  well  as  young  practiced  gym- 
nastic exercises.  From  the  body  this  health  went  over 
into  the  mind,  from  Nature  into  Spirit;  and  as  spiritual 
the  Greek  training  is  a  persistent  fact  of  the  world. 

But  not  for  health  merely  was  the  gymnasium  built 
here,  not  for  physical  education  only ;  it  was  rather  that 
man  might  make  himself  a  beautiful  object,  his  body  be- 
come a  perfect  thing  of  its  kind.  Let  it  be  developed  for 
its  own  sake,  let  the  germ  be  unfolded  into  complete  be- 
ing —  then  the  body  will  be  beautiful ;  behold  it !  So 
every  Greek  man  sought  to  make  himself  the  bearer  of  a 
perfect  thing,  though  it  be  the  body  merely.  Not  only 
this ;  he  loved  to  behold  that  perfection  in  others,  loved  to 
look  at  the  most  beautiful  man.  Hence  the  Gymnasium 
was  a  place  of  gathering  to  behold  beautiful  forms,  organ- 
isms working  melodiously  with  a  delight  of  their  own. 


444  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

See  the  youths  wrestling,  and  the  eager  spectators !  The 
eye  becomes  trained  to  form,  sensitive  to  graceful  move- 
ment. But  watch  that  other  man  intently  gazing  there 
with  inner  ectasy.  It  is  the  Artist,  he  is  to  shape  a  statue 
of  Hermes ;  now  he  beholds  the  God  divinely  floating 
over  land  and  sea  in  yonder  youth.  Thus  the  Gymnasium 
became  the  inspiration  of  plastic  Art.  No  beautiful  man 
must  perish,  the  artist  must  rescue  him  from  death;  so  we 
read  of  3,000  statues  of  athletes  in  the  iuclosure  of  the 
God  at  Delphi  to  be  protected  by  Apollo  as  long  as  his 
worship  endures.  The  Gymnasium  thus  found  its  utter- 
ance in  Art ;  its  training  ended  in  bringing  forth  the 
beautiful  plastic  work,  in  which  the  Greek  beheld  himself 
in  a  divine  mirror. 

Far  different  is  the  training  here  at  present ;  the  mon- 
astery stands  upon  the  site  of  the  old  Gymnasium.  Not 
the  transformation  of  body  now,  but  its  laceration,  its 
destruction;  it  is  given  us  to  be  crucified.  An  ugly 
thing  it  is,  to  be  disguised  in  black  garments  which  re- 
veal no  form  ;  a  worthless  thing,  to  be  punished  forever 
for  something  which  it  never  did.  Quite  the  opposite  to 
what  one  anciently  saw  on  this  spot :  joyous  youths  leap- 
ing up  in  radiant  shapes,  children  of  sunlight,  white  as 
day.  But  let  us  not  live  now  in  a  modern  Kastri,  but  in 
ancient  Delphi. 

(2.)  Stadion.  If  the  Gymnasium  was  the  place  of 
training,  the  Stadion  was  the  place  where  that  training 
was  put  to  the  test.  Thither  we  may  now  pass  to  the 
upper  part  of  the  town ;  thence  we  overlook  the  ancient 
city,  overlook  the  vale,  and  from  one  part  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  sea,  with  Arcadian  summits  lying  beyond  in  the  blue 
distance.  Seats  cut  out  of  the  solid  rock  can  still  be  ob- 
served, rising  upwards,  row  after  row ;  let  us  fill  them  with 
the  mass  of  ancient  faces  gazing  there.  What  were  they 
looking  at? 

It  may  be  summed  up  in  a  word :  struggle.  A  trait  of 
abiding  intensity  in  the  old  Greek  was  to  behold  strug- 
gle, the  beautiful  struggle.  The  Gymnasium  prepared 
the  body  into  an  instrument  of  grace  and  dexter- 
ity, that  was  the  first  struggle  of  training;  but  who 


THE  DELPHIC   TOWN.  415 

among  these  many  youths  and  men  has  the  most  perfect 
bodily  instrument?  It  must  be  settled  by  contest ;  thus 
arose  the  games  and  their  rewards.  Practice  leads  to 
conflict ;  the  end  is  beautiful  victory  ;  the  result  of  train- 
ing is  shown  in  the  outcome  of  the  contest. 

With  deep  participation  they  looked  from  these  seats 
on  the  struggle,  and  therein  beheld  an  image  of  human 
life.  Man  begins  with  struggle,  his  whole  existence  is 
struggle,  important  if  the  struggle  be  desperate.  Thus 
the  value  of  existence  is  measured  by  struggle.  The 
contestants  stood  in  the  Stadion,  with  forms  developed 
by  training;  they  had  made  the  preparation,  so  that 
every  movement  was  skill  and  beauty  ;  it  was  the  beau- 
tiful struggle  which  the  spectators  gazed  at ;  such,  too, 
they  were  to  make  of  their  lives.  Struggle  it  had  to  be  ; 
let  it  not  be  frantic,  spasmodic,  extravagant,  but  regular, 
moderate,  beautiful.  An  ideal  principle  always  lurked  in 
these  games,  quite  as  much  as  in  the  conflicts  of  a 
tragedy. 

Harmony,  therefore,  we  see  even  in  struggle.  Now 
this  harmony  is  to  find  expression  in  a  more  tuneful  way ; 
hence  the  poet  enters.  He  celebrates  the  victor ;  he 
throbs  with  exultation  as  he  beholds  triumph  in  the  beau- 
tiful struggle.  He  sings  Kallinikos,  beautiful  victor  ;  not 
the  rude  superiority  of  brute  force,  but  the  victory  of  na- 
ture trained,  of  beauty.  For  this  the  paean  rises,  and 
includes  Heroes  and  Gods  ;  for  have  they  not  done  like- 
wise, and  are  they  not  Heroes  and  Gods  just  by  virtue  of 
beautiful  victory,  over  wild  beasts,  monsters,  robbers, 
over  giants  and  Titans?  Our  Delphic  God  had  his  con- 
test with  Python,  ending  in  victory  which  gave  us  Delphi : 
anciently  the  fight  was  described  in  music  with  flute,  harp 
and  song. 

But  the  struggle  did  not  end  in  one  strain  ;  music  too 
had  its  struggle.  For  many  were  the  musicians  ready 
to  celebrate  the  beautiful  victory ;  who  can  make  it  most 
beautiful  ?  Next  then  we  must  have  a  musical  contest, 
in  which  a  struggle  is  thrown  momentarily  into  harmony 
itself,  only  to  end  in  a  still  newer  harmony.  The  hill- 
side re-echoed  with  harmony,  life  was  to  be  melodious, 


446  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

and  to  seek  a  melodious  utterance.  The  poet  is,  there- 
fore, the  last  expression  of  this  harmonious  world.  He 
too  has  had  to  be  trained  ;  he  has  had  his  struggle  with 
rude  nature  out  of  which  he  has  lured  his  strains  ;  then 
comes  the  poetical  contest  ending  with  him  also  in  beau- 
tiful victory.  Thus  the  Stadion  rises  to  a  grand  musical 
swell,  culminating  in  the  song  and  triumph  of  the  poet 
who  is  here  the  lyrist  or  sweet  singer  of  odes  and  hymns 
to  the  victors. 

(3.)  Theater.  Still  there  is  struggle  or  the  represen- 
tation of  struggle,  but  it  is  of  a  new  kind.  Deep  con- 
flicts of  soul  now  enter,  and  possess  the  realm  of  Art ; 
these  are  to  be  represented  in  all  their  strength.  It  is 
no  longer  the  beautiful  struggle  of  bodies  but  the  beau- 
tiful struggle  of  principles,  of  exalted  ideas ;  Nature  has 
risen  to  Spirit.  Such  is  the  transition  from  the  Stadion 
to  the  Theater.  Behold  Antigone  and  Creon ;  they  are 
not  the  bearers  of  a  physical  conflict  but  of  a  spiritual 
conflict ;  each  has  a  right,  and  these  two  rights  grapple 
like  two  athletes,  n'ot  to  the  outer  eye  but  to  the  inner 
vision,  with  an  agonizing  intensity.  The  unseen  realm 
is  now  drawn  into  struggle  —  become  a  vast  arena  whose 
mighty  combatants  are  thoughts,  body-controlling,  world- 
conquering.  An  ideal  element  always  lay  in  the  bodily 
combat,  but  it  was  obscured  by  flesh ;  in  the  Theater  the 
last  shred  of  rude  nature  is  thrown  off  and  the  struggle 
becomes  wholly  ideal  —  two  athletic  thoughts  wrestling 
for  the  control  of  the  universe. 

The  Theater,  therefore,  manifests  struggle  in  the  Upper 
World,  while  the  Stadion  manifests  struggle  in  the  Lower 
World.  Yet  even  the  latter  bears  the  faint  impress  of 
the  former,  and  therein  finds  its  chief  glory.  But  the 
theatrical  representation  is  wholly  the  work  of  the  poet ; 
its  combatants  are  his  creations  ;  they  fight  entirely  under 
his  command.  For  the  poet's  realm  is  peculiarly  this 
Upper  World,  in  which  he  dwells,  and  to  which  he  leads 
the  spectator  from  below.  Thus  there  arises  upon  this 
spot  the  Dramatic  Poet,  portraying  the  collisions  of  prin- 
cip]es  and  resolving  them  into  a  final  harmony,  which  is 
the  nature  of  beautiful  victory. 


THE  DELPHIC   TOWN.  447 

But  among  dramatic  poets  there  is  a  struggle  —  strug- 
gle to  represent  this  sphere  in  the  most  adequate  manner. 
There  must  be  a  contest  and  its  prize  ;  who  among  these 
makers  of  harmony  is  most  harmonious?  A  temporary 
dissonance,  but  ending  in  sweetest  concert  with  beauti- 
ful victory  for  the  poet.  Thus  the  struggle  in  its  two- 
fold phase,  in  the  dramatic  work,  and  in  the  dramatic 
contest,  has  ended  in  harmony.  No  wonder  that  a  fount- 
ain of  song  was  eternally  welling  up  at  Delphi,  and  in 
all  Greece;  here  is  the  veritable  fountain  now  gurgling 
at  our  side,  which  has  become  the  type  of  all  poetic 
fountains. 

(4.)  Castalia.  Doubtless  the  spring  at  the  mouth  of 
the  gorge  is  the  ancient  Castalian  fount  dear  to  the  Mu- 
ses. The  earthquake  of  1870,  which  destroyed  Delphi, 
filled  the  spring  with  a  mass  of  broken  rock  from  the 
mountain  above.  It  has  now  been  cleared  out,  and  the 
form  of  the  site  can  be  observed  accurately.  Six  stone 
steps  descend  to  the  rectangular  basin  of  water ;  leading 
to  these  steps  was  a  pavement  of  stone.  Niches  hewn 
into  the  solid  rock,  now  sacred  to  St.  John,  show  the 
places  for  ancient  images.  Behind  the  basin  is  a  passage 
cut  through  the  rock  which  leads  to  small  chambers,  the 
innermost  sanctuary  of  the  spot.  The  whole  was  doubt- 
less covered  with  a  small  temple ;  column  and  frieze  en- 
girdled the  waters ;  still  a  few  architectural  marks  will 
be  noticed. 

All  is  laid  out  in  the  happiest  proportion,  though  only 
the  foundations  remain.  There  is  a  simple  harmony 
speaking  from  these  hints.  Here  one  sees  in  the  strongest 
light  what  the,  Greeks  did  with  nature.  Around  Castalia 
on  all  sides  are  rude  fantastic  shapes,  jutting  precipices, 
chaotic  ravines  ;  at  once  they  drop  into  symmetry,  noth- 
ing is  capricious,  the  phantasms  become  filled  with  har- 
monious law.  No  contrast  could  be  more  direct  or 
striking  than  the  one  just  here.  Behold  the  two  — 
Nature  and  Art  —  set  alongside  of  each  other  in  the 
gorge  ;  thus  the  world  becomes  harmonious,  man  too  — 
and  Castalia  is  veritably  the  inspiration  of  such  an  exist- 
ence, the  abode  of  the  Muses. 


448  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

Thus  the  contrast  rises  into  an  act  of  worship  for  the 
ancient  man ;  he  could  behold  what  he  was,  what  he 
must  make  out  of  himself.  The  example  for  the  eye  and 
the  heart  of  the  pilgrim  was  here  ;  the  ceremonies  within 
the  little  temple  said  the  same  thing,  also  the  statues  in 
the  niches  above.  Fancy  the  beautiful  things  once  on 
this  spot ;  the  whole  mountain  seemed  to  be  passing  into 
the  new  transformation ;  the  suppliant  entered  the  shrine 
with  such  a  lesson,  the  natural  spring  is  changed  into  a 
hundred  rills  of  marble  beauty.  Nor  can  one  forget  the 
long  white  folds  of  the  priestess  descending  into  the  pool 
ere  she  sits  upon  the  tripod  ;  the  utterance  of  the  fountain 
in  one  form  or  other  she  must  give,  being  herself  trans- 
formed and  beautiful. 

Of  Castalia  the  modern  traveler  will  drink  daily  during 
his  sojourn ;  the  image  of  its  old  form  will  spring  into  his 
mind,  its  purport  too  will  not  fail  to  suggest  itself  like  a 
face  under  the  water.  The  fountain  beautified  by  Art, 
and  raised  into  a  symbol  of  the  transfiguration  of  Nature, 
will  be  quaffed :  such  is  the  true  poetic  draught.  Equally 
needful  will  it  be  to  go  back  into  the  dim  gorge  and  there 
behold  the  image  of  an  immense  head  in  the  rock  with 
long  mane-like  hair  —  the  man  of  nature  who  is  to  be 
transformed  into  the  beautiful  statue.  Dark  is  this 
descent,  full  of  shudders  possibly,  but  the  faithful  pilgrim 
has  to  make  it,  and  to  be  purified. 

The  earthquake,  too,  will  become  in  his  mind  a  sort  of 
a  t}7pical  thing,  in  its  attempt  to  overwhelm  Castalia. 
The  bruises  of  the  falling  stones  are  marked  everywhere 
upon  the  basin  ;  still  she  appears  again  in  beauty.  Such 
earthquakes  have  been  frequent  at  Delphi,  both  of  the 
real  and  spiritual  kind ;  chiefly  the  latter.  Above  all, 
those  tides  of  barbarians,  from  the  oldest  to  our  own, 
from  Persian  to  Turk,  have  come  like  an  earthquake ; 
ages  of  ignorance  and  of  prose  have  buried  Castalia  out  of 
sight,  but  someboby  will  be  forever  bringing  her  to  light 
again.  Thus  every  occurrence  seems  to  adumbrate  a 
meaning  below  the  surface.  Castalia  elevates  all  reality 
into  a  type ;  whatever  happens  to  her  becomes  a  poetic 
deed,  revealing  underneath  the  truth  of  ages.  Veritably, 


THE  DELPHIC   TOWN.  449 

therefore,  it  is  the  spring  of  the  Muses.  Just  as  the 
body  was  trained  in  the  Gymnasium  so  Nature  was 
trained  in  the  fountain,  to  reveal  her  spiritual  visage. 

Into  what  a  different  world,  from  that  of  the  dark  pro- 
phetic recess  does  Castalia  lead  you!  In  it  nature  is 
trained  to  beauty,  to  the  mild  bearer  of  spirit ;  the  rough 
sides  of  the  mountain  fall  into  harmonious  proportion 
in  the  chapel  and  temple  ;  out  of  the  naked  rock  spring 
happy  shapes  representing  what  is  divine ;  the  -fountain 
itself  is  changed  from  a  wild  spontaneous  gush  out  of 
chaotic  masses  into  the  calm  pellucid  basin  of  marble 
which  now  holds  it.  Such  was  the  Greek  world  imaged 
in  Castalia  herself ;  such  too  was  the  Greek  religion  faintly 
adumbrated,  whose  more  complete  manifestation  we  may 
now  consider. 

(5.)  Temple  of  Apollo.  This  was  the  central  point  of 
Delphi,  we  may  say  of  all  Greece,  at  one  time,  namely, 
its  instinctive,  prophetic  period.  But  its  deepest  foun- 
dation rested  upon  training  also,  training  of  the  mind,  to 
which  we  have  ascended  from  training  of  the  body. 
Wisdom  is  the  result,  hence  that  old  inscription  seen  in 
the  vestibule,  Know  Tliyself.  Castalia,  however,  had 
done  this  too  in  her  rise  out  of  nature ;  but  now  mind 
comes  to  worship  its  own  principle  in  Apollo ;  mind  is  the 
God.  The  divine  has  truly  appeared,  and  spirit  adores 
spirit  in  all  its  manifestations.  These  we  shall  hastily 
trace  in  their  connection  with  the  temple. 

It  is  clear  that  the  world  of  Art  revealed  itself  pri- 
marily here  in  antiquity.  The  ancient  pilgrim,  rounding 
the  spur  of  the  mountain  behind  which  Delphi  lies,  looked 
up  as  he  came  from  the  East  and  beheld,  what?  First  the 
temple,  one  pf  the  finest  and  largest  in  Greece  —  the 
Greek  temple  with  white  column,  architrave  and  metope; 
Apollo,  God  of  Light,  was  perched  aloft  in  the  pediment ; 
this  was  the  first  object  falling  into  his  eye.  Then  around 
the  temple  were  grouped  the  smaller  buildings,  treasuries, 
porticos  —  each  one  an  architectural  gem  ;  all  gathered 
around  the  heart  of  Delphi.  Thither  he  would  pass 
through  a  forest  of  statues,  over  3,000  in  the  time  of 
Ph'ny  after  repeated  depredations  of  the  temple.  Nero 

29 


4SO  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

alone  is  said  to  have  carried  off  500  works  in  bronze. 
Famous  paintings  too  were  on  the  walls  of  the  sacred 
edifices,  notably  those  in  the  Lesche,  hereafter  to  be 
mentioned. 

Art,  then,  is  the  revelation ;  the  early  religious  instinct 
comes  forth  in  forms  of  beauty.  Thus  there  appears  to 
the  outer  sense  the  Greek  world ;  here  it  is  revealed,  re- 
vealed in  Art.  On  this  hill-side  is  the  bloom  of  Greek 
life ;  this  Delphic  work  we  may  call  its  fairest  coronal 
flower.  As  one  looks  up  and  sees  all  that  beauty  restored, 
he  asks  again,  how  did  it  happen  to  spring  up  just  here? 
One  cannot  approach  Delphi  to-day,  without  feeling  the 
might  of  Nature,  that  she  is  doing  her  best  to  utter  the 
spiritual  element  which  lies  back  of  her.  Such  is  the 
variety  of  her  forms,  and  their  intensity  too,  ready  to 
rise  into  the  new  transfiguration  at  the  touch  of  the  sym- 
pathetic hand  of  skill.  Nature  declares  herself  to  be  a 
Greek  artist  with  all  her  shapely  figures  bursting  forth  to 
the  sun  on  this  hill-side. 

But  the  anxious  inquirer  could  not  be  content  with  the 
sensuous  glory,  he  must  go  deeper  and  seek  the  dark 
roots  of  the  fair  flower,  roots  striking  deep  into  the  Delphic 
rocks.  In  other  words,  from  Art  he  must  pass  to  Religion. 
For  is  not  this  the  most  important  question  :  What  is  Time 
bringing  forth  for  me  and  out  of  me  ?  Time,  as  the  elemen- 
tal principle  of  our  world,  has  all  concealed  within  its  dark 
chasm  ;  the  eager  pilgrim  would  fain  have  himself  brought 
into  sunlight  from  his  own  obscure  depths,  as  beautiful 
Delphi  has  been  brought  into  sunlight  out  of  dim  Nature. 
So  he  enters  the  temple  and  inquires  of  the  God  there, 
who  himself  has  risen  into  this  beautiful  revelation. 
The  Priestess  springs  upon  the  tripod,  the  strange 
prophetic  vapor  rises  from  the  unknown  depths  of  the 
earth  and  inspires  her  ;  thus  she  seeks  to  bring  the  dark 
unseen  thing  to  light,  which  is  her  holy  act  and  her  loyalty 
to  the  God.  Her  lispings  are  written  down  in  poetic 
form  by  the  priest,  sometimes  a  distinct  utterance,*some- 
times  very  indistinct,  but  even  then  commanding  the 
consultor  to  put  his  own  meaning  into  the  response,  and 
thus  to  take  his  own  deed  upon  himself. 


THE  DELPHIC   TOWN.  451 

Therefore  we  have  even  at  bright  Delphi  the  obscure 
symbol  of  man's  ascent  out  of  darkness ;  necessarily  an 
unclear  thing,  though  very  real.  Within  the  sacred  walls 
was  a  deep  cave,  to  which  very  few  found  admission ; 
the  glorious  temple  with  all  its  fair  works  was  built 
around  a  dark  recess  of  Gaia ;  if  the  consultor  would 
know  his  own  origin  and  what  is  to  be,  thither  he 
must  descend  and  listen.  It  gives  the  process  of  Greek 
culture  and  hints  what  every  Greek  man  has  to  go 
through,  giving  him  an  impressive  symbol  of  his  regenera- 
tion, whereby  it  becomes  his  religion,  the  deepest  princi- 
ple by  which  he  lives. 

Art  also  at  Delphi  has  expressed  this  dualism  of  Greek 
life  —  its  Upper  and  Lower  Worlds.  In  the  famous 
painting  by  Polygnotus  in  the  Lesche  was  the  Trojan  war, 
that  grand  struggle  of  Grecian  civilization  with  the  Orient. 
The  profoundest  duty  of  the  Hellenic  world,  its  duty  to 
be  the  barrier  of  the  West  against  the  Oriental  man,  was 
therein  expressed  vividly  to  the  vision.  The  Greek  of 
every  age  could  read  in  that  picture  his  supreme  call, 
could  behold  his  ideal.  But  there  was  another  painting 
in  the  same  place :  the  descent  of  Ulysses,  the  wise  man 
of  Greece,  to  the  Lower  Regions,  and  what  he  beheld 
there.  Thus  the  wise  man  must  do,  must  go  back  into 
the  primitive  dark  chasm  of  things  —  such  is  the  inner 
descent  which  was  imaged  by  the  painter,  but  which  had 
to  be  performed  by  the  worshiper. 

There  was  also  the  sacred  fire  kept  forever  burning,  and 
the  sacred  hearth  of  the  God,  the  primitive  spot  which 
binds  to  unity  human  feeling.  Subterranean  caverns  or 
chambers  were  built  under  the  temple  round  the  fount  of 
Cassotis,  whither  one  might  go  and  catch  the  first  rude 
lisp  of  mother  Earth.  The  Earth  is  indeed  the  primal 
Totality,  and  will  reveal  the  Totality  —  for  has  she  not 
in  her  bosom,  all  that  is  to  be?  Let  the  priestess  be  ab- 
sorbed into  the  Earth,  and  feel  the  faint  oscillations,  or 
whisperings  perchance  ;  then  let  her  utter  them.  Often 
Gaia  does  seem  to  forewarn  and  to  reveal  deep  secrets  in 
that  way.  In  some  such  manner  the  worshiper  tried  to 
get  back  of  the  fair  life  at  Delphi,  the  world  of  temples, 


452  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

statues,  treasures,  to  reach  what  lay  behind  them  and 
brought  them  into  being,  and  to  appropriate  the  same  un- 
to himself.  The  beautiful  life  must  be  mine,  it  is  that 
which  I  worship ;  let  me  transfuse  myself,  now  a  rude 
thing  of  Nature,  into  the  Delphic  image,  by  passing 
through  the  same  process. 

Very  far  back  was  the  Delphic  worshiper  led ;  there 
were  hints  of  that  remotest  form  of  worship,  the  fetish. 
The  sacred  stone  upon  which  the  first  Sibyl  sat  and  ut- 
tered her  responses  was  pointed  out  in  historic  times,  still 
an  object  of  reverence.  Then  the  stone  of  Cronus,  which 
Rhea  gave  him  instead  of  the  infant  Jupiter,  was  there  ; 
this  infant  grew  up  and  overthrew  the  old  Gods,  the  Gods 
of  mere  Nature,  and  instituted  the  new  glorious  epoch  of 
which  Delphi  is  the  highest  manifestation.  Let  therefore 
the  ancient  relic,  the  symbol  of  the  mighty  revolution  be 
preserved  as  a  holy  memorial.  Chiefest  of  all  is  the 
Omphalus  or  navel  stone,  marking  the  center  of  the  earth. 
Jupiter  sent  out  two  eagles,  one  from  the  East  and  one 
from  the  West,  and  they  met  upon  that  spot ;  such  was 
the  divine  proof.  The  stone  had  the  two  images  of  the 
eagles  upon  it,  as  the  account  runs.  Very  old  indication 
of  the  importance  of  Delphi,  this  is  ;  the  place  is  a  center, 
an  intense  physical  center  first,  then  a  spiritual  one  —  in 
fact  the  one  images  the  other.  We  have  already  noticed 
the  primitive  oracle  of  Gaia ;  the  first  rude  attempt  to 
grasp  the  Universal,  for  is  not  the  Earth  the  first  All  to 
the  natural  man  ?  Thus  the  worshiper  was  led  back  deep 
into  the  origin  of  things,  and  deep  into  himself.  The  two 
stones,  one  of  the  formless  fetich,  the  other  the  marble 
statue  of  Apollo,  showed  the  Delphic  transition. 

In  the  ceremonial  at  Delphi,  we  may  therefore  notice 
several  stages  of  primitive  worship,  each  of  which  was  a 
descent  of  the  soul  into  itself  as  well  as  a  going  back- 
ward in  historic  time.  This  correspondence  of  the  growth 
of  history  with  the  growth  of  the  single  soul,  of  what  is  uni- 
versal with  what  is  individual,  is  the  great  fact  of  relig- 
ion ;  eaph  human  personality  must  be  what  its  race  is ; 
nay,  must  ideally  go  over  what  its  race  has  gone  over. 
The  worshiper  beholds  in  these  rites  a  rise  out  of  that 


THE  DELPHIC   TOWN.  453 

which  he  himself  is  and  an  elevation  into  the  divine ;  it 
is  to  him,  therefore,  the  most  vital  of  all  processes. 

Thus  the  world  or  its  history  is  nothing  more  than  a 
man,  —  the  universal  man,  developing  himself  according 
to  his  own  spiritual  law,  with  which  universal  man  the 
individual  man  must  place  himself  in  harmony  in  the  act 
of  worship.  The  World- Man  let  him  be  called ;  he  too 
is  seeking  to  unfold  himself  into  reality,  whereof  the 
Greek  time  is  one  great  phase.  To  this  World-Man  cor- 
respond infinite  individuals,  reflecting  him  as  their  High- 
est, adoring  him,  going  back  through  his  primordial 
stages,  for  his  way  is  their  way.  Thus  was  every  Greek 
in  the  Delphic  lime,  an  image  more  or  less  complete  of  the 
World- Man  then;  this  was  indeed  his  very  essence,  was 
that  which  made  him  Greek. 

In  one  way  or  another  every  individual  has  to  pass 
through  the  development  of  the  World-Man,  of  his  ante- 
cedent historic  realities ;  such  is  the  education  of  the 
race  to-day.  One  must  be  all  that  the  World-Man  is  or 
has  ever  been  essentially.  Merely  individual  develop- 
ment would  be  worth  little,  if  there  was  not  in  it  at  the 
same  time  a  universal  development,  if  the  World-Man 
did  not  shine  through  it  and  transfigure  it.  Each  per- 
son must  grow  over  again  what  mankind  has  grown  over ; 
on  the  wings  of  his  race  he  rises  out  of  savagery  to  the 
front  of  his  own  time ;  such  is  true  education,  such,  too, 
in  another  form,  is  worship.  Thus  the  Delphic  worshiper 
in  these  rites  lived  over  again  the  life  of  his  race,  and 
rose  with  it  into  the  clear  happy  sunlight  of  Delphi. 

Mythology  too  has  imaged  the  same  course  of  things 
as  the  ceremonial.  The  legend  says  of  Gaia  that  she 
was  here  first,  then  occurred  changes  ;  Themis,  she  who 
establishes,  had  the  Oracle  after  Gaia,  before  it  passed  to 
Apollo.  Then  the  slaying  of  the  serpent  Python  marks 
the  advent  of  the  new  God.  Dim  adumbrations  in  legend 
they  are  of  early  changes,  early  advances ;  the  my  thus 
always  pictures  the  ascenl  of  the  spiritual  from  the  na- 
tural ;  indeed  it  is  just  the  forms  of  nature  filled  with  the 
contents  of  spirit. 

(6.)  Pylaea.  This  is  the  supposed  site  of  the  Amphic- 


454  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

tynonic  edifice  —  the  political  instrumentality  of  Delphi. 
The  Amphictyonic  council  sat  here,  it  was  the  political 
framework  which  protected  Delphi ;  a  sort  of  federation 
it  seems  of  surrounding  tribes,  whose  object  was  to  de- 
fend the  God,  to  preserve  him  as  the  sacred  center  of 
Hellenism.  One  highest  purpose  alone  it  could  have  — 
that  was  to  unite  Greece,  to  make  these  little  communities 
harmonious  ;  all  Greece  was  to  be  a  Delphi,  many  Delphis, 
beautiful  flowers  springing  up  from  rocky  slopes.  The 
oneness  which  the  whole  Hellenic  race  felt  in  its  God  the 
Amphictyons  were  to  make  institutional,  to  elevate  into 
the  State. 

But  this  could  not  be,  this  was  the  limit  of  the  God,  the 
limit  of  Greece.  The  unity  which  she  felt  in  her  deity, 
she  was  unable  to  realize  in  her  political  institutions. 
Her  oneness  remains  an  emotion,  an  aspiration,  a  dream, 
an  oracle.  Not  strong  enough  to  realize  her  common 
brotherhood  —  such  was  her  weakness,  and  with  it  the 
brand  of  destiny.  The  Delphic  Amphictyony  as  a  political 
contrivance  is  utterly  fragile,  shows  in  fact  the  limitation 
of  Greek  spirit  in  all  its  nakedness.  Thus  the  bare  stones 
of  the  Pylaea  are  deeply  significant  —  they  mean  the  ruins 
of  Delphi,  temples  and  all ;  that  Hellenic  unity  in  the 
God  never  became  an  abiding  fact  in  the  world.  The 
town  had  no  adequate  protection  from  without,  which  is 
furnished  by  the  State ;  Greece  never  translated,  never 
could  translate  this  Delphic  feeling  of  oneness  into  one 
government  for  the  whole  Greek  kinship ;  the  religious 
unity  was  never  realized  in  the  secular  policy,  which, 
therefore,  never  had  any  true  center.  The  stones  of 
Pylaea  represent  more  than  Delphi,  they  are  the  image  of 
entire  Hellas. 

Not  all  the  ruins  of  Delphi  have  we  here  reported,  nor 
is  it  necessary.  There  is  one  Hellenic  note  in  them,  they 
sing  in  unison,  when  they  are  once  introduced  into  their 
company.  That  note  of  unity  is  what  the  eager  sojourner 
is  eager  to  hear,  and  to  carry  away  in  some  form,  if  he 
can ;  many  times  during  the  day  he  goes  out  and  listens. 
But  not  always  can  he  hear  the  music ;  it  has  its  day,  its 
hour,  its  very  minute ;  it  cannot  be  wooed  at  will,  it  can- 


DELPHIC  DAYS.  455 

not  be  held  by  violence.  But  after  many  attempts,  after 
long  sitting  amid  the  tumbled  stones,  after  a  loyal  sur- 
render to  the  influence,  it  will  come,  come  unexpectedly. 
The  Delphic  unity,  that  of  the  whole  Greek  world,  will 
rise  up  a  living  thing,  a  creative  thing  in  the  soul,  will  be 
yours,  though  your  utterance  of  it  be  faint  and  frag- 
mentary as  Delphi  itself. 


XXL  THE  DELPHIC  NOTE  BOOK. 

APOLLO,  says  the  legend,  stopped  at  Delphi  in  his  wan- 
derings over  the  Earth,  and  set  up  his  temple.  He  found 
here  the  miracle  of  Nature  which  sought  expression 
through  him,  and  which  he  was  to  fill  with  his  own  soul. 
Erecting  his  shrine,  he  began  to  form  these  hills  and 
with  them  to  transform  man ;  thus  the  spot  became  a 
radiating  center  of  light,  a  spiritual  sun,  and  prophetic 
therein  of  all  that  Greece  was  to  be.  Like  Apollo  of  old 
the  pilgrim  passes  to  Delphi ;  he  may  lightly  run  over 
the  rest  of  the  Greek  territory,  but  at  this  point  he  is 
stopped  by  Nature,  who  is  still  full  of  spiritual  sugges- 
tion, and  dumbly  prays  for  a  voice.  If  he  goes  on  he 
will  be  drawn  back  ;  he  must  think  that  here  is  yet  some 
utterance  of  the  God,  that  here  is  some  service  to  be  per- 
formed by  one  who  wishes  to  transfuse  himself  into 
harmony  with  the  old  divinity.  So  the  pilgrim  will  seek 
to  do  over  again  at  Delphi  in  image  what  the  God  did  in 
reality. 

The  rocks,  the  bushes,  the  mosses  you  behold 

growing  on  the  side  of  the  mountain ;  but  if  you  turn 
your  eye  beneath,  you  see  them  reflected  in  the  waters 
of  Castalia ;  indeed  you  will  take  in  both  image  and  re- 
ality with  one  penetrating  glance.  You  will  also  behold 
your  own  face  among  the  green  shrubbery  mirrored  in  the 
translucent  depths ;  nay,  you  may  observe  your  own 
eyes  beholding  all  this  varied  imagery  in  the  fountain. 


456  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

One  must  always  be  able  to  see  double  at  Delphi,  see  not 
only  this  glorious  Nature,  but  its  reflection  in  Castalia 
along  with  the  image  of  the  beholder :  wherefore  the 
Muses'  fount  is  it,  if  not  for  that? 

The  harmonies  of  Delphi  mainly  flow  from  the 

happy  union  of  Nature  and  Soul.  Whatever  we  see  sug- 
gests some  strain,  strikes  the  chords  within ;  still  more, 
whatever  we  feel  and  think,  drops  at  once  into  vibration 
with  the  outer  world  and  therein  finds  expression.  Can 
you  wonder  that  a  person  becomes  deeply  attuned  amid 
such  surroundings,  and  is  absorbed  into  their  musical 
mood?  It  is  a  necessity  of  air  and  sky,  of  mountain  and 
valley,  of  the  vineyards  and  Olives.  Then  back  of  the 
Present  lies  the  Past  which  fills  it  and  sets  it  throbbing ; 
every  object  is  laden  with  the  old  transfigured  into  the 
new ;  the  antique  world  welling  up  into  the  modern  life 
and  scenery  gives  the  rhythm,  in  whose  sweep  all  is  em- 
braced and  harmonized.  But  it  is  not  the  jingling  of 
words  of  like  sounds,  not  a  merely  external  tintinnab- 
ulation; it  is  rhythm,  harmonious  modulations  of  the 
whole  world  revealed  here,  resembling  those  of  the  sea 
with  its  ever-recurring  sweep  of  long  waves,  that  come 
on  like  Fate,  yet  with  many  a  little  capricious  water-curl 
playing  over  the  surface. 

There  is  something  which  one  seeks  to  live  with 

intimately  in  the  artistic  instinct  of  the  Greek.  His  eye 
must  have  been  a  wonder,  broadened  into  touch,  deep- 
ened to  soul.  It  lay  on  the  way  between  the  inner  and 
outer  worlds,  both  of  which  dwelt  in  that  hostelry,  im- 
aging each  other  in  a  transparent  happy  harmony. 
The  Greek  did  not  turn  wholly  within  and  brood  over  his 
own  formless,  fathomless  depths,  nor  did  he  abide  with- 
out, sunk  in  a  mere  life  of  the  senses.  Whatever  from 
the  outer  world  passed  into  that  true  eye  of  his,  was  filled 
with  the  inner  world ;  and  the  inner  world  in  brotherly 
harmony  took  some  kindred  outer  shape  in  which  it  re- 
vealed itself  and  became  beautiful.  A  small  poem  in  the 
Greek  Anthology,  often  about  the  humblest  daily  matter, 
has  an  eye  which  seems  to  have  quite  gone  blind  in  mod- 
ern life ;  an  eye  clear-seeing,  clear-imaging,  an  eye  in 


THE  DELPHIC   HOTE  BOOK.  457 

whose  translucent  depths  Nature  and  Soul  meet,  embrace 
and  wed  with  eternal  marriage-song. 

The  sojourner  will  often  long  to  go  to  the  white 

summit  of  Parnassus,  which  every  morning  rises  en- 
ticingly before  him,  but  he  will  be  warned  against  snow 
drifts,  and  the  danger  of  getting  lost,  even  of  being  over- 
taken by  wolves.  Still  on  some  fair  day  he  will  set  out 
and  traverse  the  cliffs  to  the  table  land ;  there  among  the 
deserted  huts  he  will  sit  down  at  the  foot  of  lofty  Liak- 
uri,  and  look  up  at  the  snow-line  and  the  pine  woods  be- 
yond it ;  he  will  be  unable  to  restrain  himself  from  the 
ascent ;  he  must  go  up  and  see  what  is  going  on  there. 
He  passes  the  border  and  sports  in  the  snow,. smells  the 
fragrance  of  the  wetted  pines  and  rouses  the  hare  from 
her  cover.  But  spring  has  set  in,  the  frozen  sides  are 
melting,  every  rill  is  full  and  hurries  off  to  the  Olives  and 
vineyards,  where  the  fruits  of  autumn  are  to  be  nour- 
ished to  bloom  and  maturity.  Flowers  spring  up  in  the 
wake  of  the  retreating  snow-line,  driving  it  further  up  the 
mountain  ;  the  bees  follow  and  the  butterflies,  often  flit- 
ting gaily  over  the  frost  as  an  enemy  conquered ;  then 
comes  the  shepherd  with  pipe  and  song,  bringing  his 
herds  to  the  freshest  herbs  of  the  season ;  all  are  in  hos- 
tile pursuit  of  the  snow,  and  will  soon  push  it  into  its  in- 
accessible fastness  on  the  summit  of  Liakuri.  Thus  icy 
Parnassus  seems  to  loosen  in  the  spring  and  thaw  itself 
into  rills,  into  flowers,  into  song,  making  a  vernal  har- 
mony which  will  be  always  humming  in  the  ear  of  the 
wanderer  as  be  rambles  through  the  mountains. 

Many  are  the  flowers  that  grow  on  Parnassus  — 

but  there  is  one  which  you  will  select,  a  small  blue 
flower,  and  feel  to  be  the  fairest  of  all  in  her  tender  beau- 
ty. The  slope  is  now  full  of  her  mild  eyelets  ;  the  whole 
mountain  rather  is  one  flower,  a  maiden  you  will  sa}', 
whose  every  glance  changes  to  a  flower,  and  remains 
fixed  in  its  blue  tenderness  looking  up  at  you,  at  times 
with  a  dewy  tear  on  its  lid.  So  Zeus  transformed  Kalo- 
kaira  into  an  Oread,  whose  glances  were  held  fast  on 
the  mountain  side  and  preserved  in  a  pretty  flower. 
Indeed,  we  all  have  seen  blue  eyes  in  which  each  look 


458  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

was  a  sudden  flower,  and  whose  life  was  a  flowery  dream 
flitting  away  with  the  moments.  This  modest  wee  flower, 
slightly  hanging  the  head  as  if  to  shun  the  stranger's 
gaze,  springs  up  in  the  stoniest  spots  amid  the  hardest 
rock,  sometimes  peers  out  of  the  surrounding  snow; 
tenderness,  then,  is  strength.  I  pluck  one  carefully  out 
by  the  roots  with  the  earth  clinging  to  them,  and  think 
of  transplanting  the  same  to  my  home,  if  it  be  possible  — 
that  delicate  Parnassian  flower,  yet  so  stout-hearted  that 
neither  coldness  nor  sterility  can  subdue  its  smile  of 
tenderness. 

Through  a  distant  opening  between  two  peaks 

one  beholds  an  arm  of  the  sea  running  out  into  the  blue, 
Corinthian  waters  which  in  placid  repose  lie  amid  the 
dreamy  hills,  whose  outlines  express  a  calm  symmetry. 
Still  further  in  the  background  are  the  Arcadian  summits, 
swimming  in  the  horizon,  which  closes  the  aperture 
through  which  we  are  looking.  Over  all  is  spread  the 
haze  which  still  further  subdues  the  ruggedness,  the 
striving  of  the  peaks  ;  Nature  has  seemingly  put  it  into 
her  picture  for  the  purpose  of  tranquillity,  and  then  added 
to  it  the  mild  golden  light  of  Apollo.  Happy  serenity, 
not  even  the  struggle  of  contemplation  it  suggests,  but  a 
glorious  reconciliation  of  the  beautiful  world  before  us 
softly  throbbing  in  silent  harmonies. 

•  From  the  hill-side  one  looks  at  the  veil  of  haze 

suspended  above  from  the  blue  welkin,  dropping  down 
upon  the  mountains,  resting  gently  over  the  valleys  — 
looks  long  and  wonders  what  it  means.  A  bond  of  union 
it  is,  first  of  all,  uniting  sea,  summit  and  skies,  trans- 
fusing them,  you  may  say,  into  one  melodious  concert 
of  Nature.  A  divine  thing,  therefore  —  being  that  which 
unites,  not  that  which  separates,  bringing  into  harmony 
the  disjointed  and  jarring  members  of  the  rugged  land- 
scape. A  visible  outward  sign  of  their  union  it  appears, 
corresponding  to  their  inner  oneness,  yet  in  its  trans- 
parency revealing  their  distinctness.  Then,  too,  peace  it 
means,  peace  scattered  over  hill  and  valley,  peace  attuned 
to  the  soul  of  man.  Reclining  under  the  trees  of  the 
orchard  we  glance  up  at  the  mountains  in  light  blue  veil ; 


THE  DELPHIC  NOTE  BOOK.  459 

it  is  the  suggestion  of  serene  sweet  repose  for  the  highest 
heights  ;  wherever  it  lies,  there  is  tranquillity ;  even  the 
rough  restless  features  of  the  hills  are  softened  in  the 
breath  of  its  quiet.  Not  a  tone  of  tumult  we  hear  now, 
hardly  of  activity ;  repose  has  settled  upon  the  summits, 
and  they  cease  to  struggle  upwards,  content  to  rest  in 
their  new  divine  harmony.  The  traveler,  too,  becomes 
one  with  the  landscape,  whose  music  sweeps  through  him  ; 
he  is  himself  transmuted  into  haze  as  he  lies  under  an 
Olive,  and  gazes  up  toward  the  blue  heights,  feeling  with- 
in himself  the  oneness  of  the  Delphic  world. 

As  the  sojourner  descends  from  Delphi,  at  the 

head  of  the  village  he  will  enter  the  Olive  orchards.  The 
trees  will  attract  his  notice  by  their  subtle  sparkle  set 
in  green,  by  their  loads  of  fruit,  by  their  old  hollow 
twisted  trunks,  by  their  fresh  sproutlings.  The  Olive  is 
truly  the  holy  tree  of  the  Greeks  still,  one  may  well  call 
it  the  favorite  of  Pallas  Athena.  Meat  grows  upon  its 
branches,  it  furnishes  vegetable  and  animal  food  togeth- 
er—  the  most  universal  of  fruit-bearing  trees.  Now  is 
the  season  for  picking  the  olives,  and  this  is  the  main 
occupation  of  the  village.  The  young  folks  are  here  — 
maidens  full  of  mirth  and  love,  singing  throughout  the 
orchards.  When  the  stranger  conies  near,  they  attune 
their  voices,  for  they  see  him  and  instinctively  try  to  lure 
him  with  their  most  enticing  gift.  And  he  is  lured,  since 
he  will  go  up  to  the  group,  or  perchance  stand  still  at 
some  distance,  hesitating  to  expose  himself  to  their  gay 
mockery.  But  when  he  sees  one  of  them  alone  with  the 
parent,  thither  he  will  pass  and  help  gather  the  berries, 
for  this  is  his  harvest  too. 

Often  he  will  wander  for  miles  through  the  orch- 
ards, loitering  along  streams  of  clear  running  water, 
through  deep  clefts,  past  mills  turned  by  mountain 
streams.  Often  he  will  sit  down  under  a  tree,  take  out 
his  note-book  and  try  to  put  in  words  *the  view  and  its 
mood  —  somehow  or  other  those  words  will  fall  into  a  sort 
of  a  rhythm  as  if  playing  at  verse  mid  the  Olives.  The 
maidens  in  the  distance  empty  their  baskets  of  fruit,  and  the 
slow  donkey  toils  up  the  rocky  winding  pathway  through 


460  A    WALK  IN  HELL  AS. 

the  trees,  the  mountain  opposite  rises  steep  and  bare, 
perforated  with  curious  caverns,  homes  of  the  nymphs. 
He  will  go  through  the  chasm  darkling,  he  will  come  upon 
ancient  foundations  of  cut  stone,  he  will  see  the  beautiful 
shrine  or  temple  arise  once  more  to  the  sunlight,  and  per- 
chance in  an  unguarded  moment  he  may  catch  a  glimpse 
of  fantastic  Pan  and  his  rout  disappearing  in  the  distance 
among  the  trunks  of  the  trees.  This  Lower  World  will 
not  persist  in  his  view,  but  transfigures  itself  into  another 
and  Upper  World,  which  is  the  enduring  fact  of  Delphi ; 
all  Nature  seems  on  the  point  of  turning  mythical  and  be- 
coming a  poem. 

Only  every  third  year,  it  is  said,  is  a  good  year  for 

Olives ;  two  years  they  must  rest  ere  they  again  bear 
fruit.  From  the  great  earth  they  draw  up  but  slowly 
their  juices  after  the  fatigue  of  the  season  of  bearing. 
Still,  in  these  vacant  years,  they  are  not  idle  ;  new  wood 
they  deposit,  the  old  trunk  they  inlay  with  many  a  fresh 
fiber  from  which  comes  the  youthful  life  which  produces 
the  fruit.  The  body  of  the  tree,  nay,  its  vegetable  soul, 
must  be  renewed  to  reproduce  itself ;  it  is  the  new  life 
which  begets  the  new  life.  Note  these  little  channels 
running  everywhere  through  the  orchards ;  they  bear 
water  to  the  Olives  through  mairy  a  rijl,  forming  crystal- 
line nets  stretched  out  on  the  hill-side  under  the  trees 
whose  trunks  they  entwine  in  a  thousand  meshes.  They 
carry  the  fresh  streams  of  Parnassus  to  the  exhausted 
rootlets,  renewing  the  old  stem  and  nursing  the  sprout- 
ling  ;  for  it  is  the  new  tree  only  which  yields  the  new 
olive,  the  aged  stock  has  to  become  young  again. 
Whence  come  those  streams?  From  the  tops  of  Par- 
nassus they  flow,  or  well  up  from  unseen  sources  within 
the  mountain,  watering  the  Olives. 

-Every  three  years  only  the  Olives  produce,  then 

they  repose  to  gather  anew  their  youth.  Thus  too  the 
Poet  or  Maker «  after  exertion  he  must  rest  for  a  season 
till  he  become  young  again,  with  new  tissue,  whence  he 
may  draw  adolescent  freshness  and  beauty.  Born  over 
again  must  he  be  after  the  work  of  creation ;  the  throes 
of  utterance  waste  the  youth  of  his  spirit,  the  dew  of  the 


THE  DELPHIC  NOTE  BOOK.  4G1 

soul  is  dried  up  in  the  fire  of  conception.  A  new  life, 
then,  he  must  have  —  a  life  softly  stored  away  in  his 
brain  by  the  years,  that  he  may  be  veritably  young  what- 
ever his  age.  Many  a  rivulet  from  Parnassus,  too,  must 
water  his  fruitful  orchard,  till  youth's  sap  rise  into  the 
ancient  fibres  in  place  of  weariness  and  decay.  Many  a 
day  of  sunshine  must  be  taken  into  each  tree  till  it  be 
stored  full  of  happy  gleams  ;  many  a  breath  of  air  from 
Parnassian  heights  must  be  inhaled,  till  the  new  trans- 
formation take  place,  with  all  of  which  the  Muse  must 
mingle  her  melodious  strain.  Each  thought  is  a  birth, 
each  line  of  the  Poet  must  sing  itself  into  being.  Age  is 
impotent,  the  new  word  springs  from  the  new  life,  throb- 
bing after  reposeful  periods  into  utterance  like  the  tri- 
ennial yield  of  the  olive. 

The  olive  tree  was  very  old,  hundreds  of  years 

possibly  had  fled  past  it,  often  with  fire  and  sword ;  still 
it  stood.  Its  limbs  were  everywhere  filled  with  berries, 
but  the  corrosion  of  age  had  touched  the  last  fibre,  though 
no  one  knew  it.  I  looked  into  the  top  of  that  tree,  it 
laughed  with  a  youthful  delight,  wide-spreading  was  its 
crown,  richer  than  ever  was  its  yield  of  fruit.  An  en- 
raptured vision  it  seemed ;  standing  there  in  the  sun  it 
dreamed  of  eternal  duration.  A  light  wind  came  down 
from  the  mountain,  the  last  thin  fibre  snapped  ;  still  the 
prostrate  monarch  had  the  joy  that  he  never  grew  old, 
that  his  last  was  his  richest  burden. 

Here,  take  in  your  hand  this  olive,  the  rind  is  a 

dark  rich  brown  with  shades  of  red ;  graceful  is  its  form, 
and  there  is  lusciousness  in  its  look.  It  is  full  of  meat 
holding  little  sacs  of  oil;  the  globules  will  exude  if  you 
only  brush  the  surface.  But  at  the  heart  it  is  red,  red 
around  the  stone,  with  decided  warmth  and  richness  in 
the  color —  a  genuine  hue  of  the  heart's  passion,  you  will 
say.  Press  it,  there  follows  a  gush  of  oil ;  the  heart  at 
once  gives  forth  all  its  essence,  and  seems  glad  to  yield  up 
its  secret  wealth  to  this  gentle  pressure  of  a  sympathetic 
hand.  Even  bruised  and  broken,  it  reveals  more  gener- 
ously the  rich  stores  of  its  heart. 

In  the  paths  that   lead  through  the  orchard   are 


462  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

shown  many  of  these  berries ;  they  fall  helpless  from  the 
limbs  above  into  the  road  underneath  where  they  are 
trampled  upon  by  the  men  passing  that  way.  There  they 
lie  in  the  dirt,  crushed,  disregarded ;  the  rich  oil  is  trod- 
den out  into  the  dust,  a  dark  greasy  spot  is  all  that  re- 
mains of  them.  Stirred  by  some  storm  or  possibly  by  a 
light  wind  only,  they  fell  from  the  paternal  branch ;  now 
they  are  lost  forever,  nobody  will  pick  them  up,  nobody 
will  touch  them,  men  will  simply  tread  on  them  again, 
heedlessly,  till  they  be  buried  out  of  sight,  trampled  into 
their  grave.  I  do  not  deny  that  I  avoid  stepping  on 
them,  pity  them  as  I  see  them  lying  there  with  all  their 
oil  spilled.  Such  are  the  crushed  olives  which  one  will 
see  on  his  pathway  even  in  Delphic  mood. 

One  will  curiously  think  of  an  ancient  crushed 

olive,  noted  at  Delphi  for  her  gift  of  five  hundred  spits  to 
the  God.  It  is  a  puzzling  donation ;  why  spits  for  such  a 
purpose  —  why  so  many  —  why  just  she,  fair  Rhodope? 
But  leave  the  matter  to  the  antiquarian,  and  listen  for 
a  moment  to  the  scoffer.  ' '  Les  pretres  paiens  ne  se 
montraient  pas  plus  difficiles  que  les  pretres  Chretiens 
pour  ces  sortes  d'  off randes ;  ne  sont  ce  pas  les  grands 
coupables  qui  ont  toujours  enrichi  les  Eglises?"  (Lar- 
ousse,  Enc. ;  Art.  Delphi.)  Wicked  Paris!  That  view  of 
the  Delphic  world  we  shall  not  take,  whatever  be  the  so- 
lution of  Rhodope' s  problem.  Was  it  a  wild  piece  of 
mockery,  or  a  genuine  act  of  piety?  We  say  the  latter; 
in  deep  sincerity  the  crushed  olive  gave  up  its  offering 
for  restoration ;  I  can  see  a  longing  of  that  sort  in  those 
trampled  most  deeply  into  the  dust  at  my  feet. 

When  the  olives  are  gathered,  then  the  busy  hands 

pass  to  the  vineyard  in  order  that  Bacchus  may  rejoice 
in  their  work.  They  loosen  the  earth  round  the  roots 
of  the  grape  vine,  that  it  may  distil  the  bright  drops, 
drawing  them  into  their  little  vats  in  the  fruit.  A  soft 
bed  for  the  God  we  prepare  in  the  ground,  and  by  our 
caresses  we  shall  entice  him  to  rest  with  us.  Thus  we 
change  the  kind  of  our  labor ;  our  thoughts,  too,  change ; 
our  songs  change.  These  are  filled  with  the  glories  of 
Bacchus  and  the  hopes  of  the  autumn.  I,  too,  change 


THE  DELPHIC  NOTE  ROOK.  463 

with  the  others,  a  touch  of  the  madness  of  the  wine-god 
I  feel,  as  I  think  of  the  rootlets  sipping  at  a  perpetual 
banquet  or  dipping  up  the  dew  from  the  soil  for  us  and 
storing  it  away  in  the  grape.  They  are  all  little  Hebes  — 
cup-bearers  of  the  God  ;  note  how  each  one  carries  his 
little  tear-drop  and  lays  it  away  in  a  small  cell  for  me 
the  coming  autumn.  All  are  working  for  my  behoof, 
I  see.  Not  unrewarded  shall  ye  be,  my  little  gnomes  ;  to 
your  glory  shall  I  drink,  and  even  may  make  a  song,  if 
the  coy  Muses  be  not  frightened  from  the  revel. 

Notice  the  old  stock  of  the  grape  vine,  it  is  a 

character.  Dozens  of  years  has  it  stood,  bearing  its 
annual  crop ;  crook-backed  with  its  burden  of  labor,  it 
still  puts  forth  young  sprouts  which  are  hung  with  grapes. 
Twisted  and  squirming  with  the  struggle  of  life,  it  is  yet 
green,  and  rejoices  in  youth  and  the  sun.  Often  it  has 
been  cut  by  the  pruning  knife ;  wounds  it  has  received 
all  over  its  body  in  the  hard  battle  of  existence  upon  this 
hill-side ;  still  from  its  scars  it  sends  forth  new  blossoms 
which  yield  the  richest  and  most  plentiful  fruit.  Age 
cannot  wither  it,  seasons  cannot  quench  the  gay  works  of 
its  rejuvenescence.  Truly  the  plant  of  Bacchus,  the 
beloved  stripling  divine,  thou  springest  from  the  earth ; 
no  wonder  thou  makest  us  young  when  we  partake  of  thy 
stores  ;  it  is  but  thyself  which  thou  impartest  to  us,  and 
even  to  the  old  man  thou  restorest  the  days  of  his  youth. 
Thou  wreathest  the  brow  of  the  God  with  thy  leaves, 
elevating  thyself  to  a  divine  participation  ;  for  whatever 
cuts  off  Time  from  his  dominion,  confers  immortality, 
and  is  to  us  mortals  a  deity. 

Look  at  old  Yankos  at  work  in  the  vineyard ; 

how  he  lops  each  vine  with  a  quick  turn  of  the  head, 
making  his  iron-gray  curls  spring  round  his  brow  in 
chorus !  Do  you  not  like  to  see  his  white  folds  dance 
about  his  body  ?  Speak  to  him  and  hear  his  answer ; 
his  is  a  mountain  voice,  attuned  to  this  lofty  air,  and 
made  for  talking  from  peak  to  peak.  Thus  his  words  are 
few  and  far-echoing;  filled  too  with  a  sort  of  natural 
music.  He  never  stops  his  work  while  conversing ;  his 
very  life  is  to  prune  his  vineyard.  It  seems  at  first  a 


464  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

pity  to  cut  the  green  twigs,  but  only  by  trimming, 
Yankos  says,  will  the  vines  be  prevented  from  becoming 
mere  leaves  and  branches,  and  be  made  to  bear  grapes. 
Foliage,  Yankos  does  not  wish,  but  fruit.  On  the  stock 
lie  leaves  two  small  buds,  which  will  produce  all  the  wine 
for  the  next  vintage ;  the  sprouts  on  which  grew  last 
year's  clusters  are  cut  away,  they  have  now  grown  old 
and  fit  only  for  the  flame.  The  young  shoots  alone  can 
produce  the  true  nectar,  young  shoots  from  the  old  body. 
Then  the  juice  makes  young  whoever  sips  of  its  drops ; 
but  the  vine  must  be  trimmed,  trimmed  by  the  careful 
pruner  into  perpetual  youth.  Look  at  Yankos  again,  he 
is  no  longer  old,  he  is  so  sunk  in  his  work  that  he  grows 
3'oung  with  his  vineyard,  transformed  by  his  art  into  one 
of  its  products,  or  rather  into  sudden  gleams  of  youthful 
Bacchus. 

One   of  the  chief   Delphic  delights  is  to  trace  the 

ancient  foundations  of  dwelling-houses,  still  marked  by 
grooves  in  the  rock  where  it  was  cut  for  the  base  of  a 
wall.  Steps  hewed  out  of  the  stone  lead  in  many  a  wind- 
ing passage  over  the  steep  hill-side ;  you  will  mark  the 
place  of  each  house.  Here  was  a  location  chosen  an- 
ciently for  a  dwelling  by  some  skilled  Greek  eye  for  the 
sake  of  the  glance  down  into  the  landscape  below.  I  try 
to  look  from  the  spot  with  that  eye,  examine  the  scenery ; 
I  seek  to  become  what  the  Greek  owner  was,  to  feel  what 
he  felt,  as  his  look  swept  through  the  valley  to  the  sea, 
then  turned  about  and  rested  upon  the  snowy  peak  of 
Parnassus.  From  each  of  these  sites  you  behold  new 
combinations  of  landscape  —  always  something  new  is 
seen  though  the  separate  objects  be  familiar.  Thus  one 
may  still  enjoy  the  old  Greek's  view,  build  his  house,  sit 
with  him,  and  look  at  Delphi  with  its  temples,  listen  to 
him  reading  Homer,  fill  the  court  of  his  house  with  flow- 
ers and  colonnades.  But  the  conversation  is  hushed  as 
the  white-robed  daughter  glides  past  through  the  columns 
on  her  way  to  her  apartment.  Not  a  word  she  says,  her 
face  is  almost  hid,  still  from  behind  the  cover  the  dark 
eye  sends  a  single  gleam,  and  one  glimpse  of  that 
perfect  line  joining  face  and  forehead  is  left  as  a 


THE  DELPHIC  NOTE  BOOK.  465 

precious  boon  to  the  stranger,  the  most  delightful 
memento  of  Delphi. 

The  old  temples,  too,  the  traveler  will  build  up 

again  and  place  in  their  locality.  The  pediment  will  be 
filled  with  marble  myths,  friezes  will  be  drawn  around  it, 
showing  some  conflict  of  heroes,  or  some  noble  festival  of 
mortals.  In  the  evening  when  twilight  falls  upon  the 
modern  hamlet,  he  will  hardly  see  the  hovels  yonder,  but 
the  whole  site  of  semilunar  Delphi  will  become  white  with 
colonnaded  rows,  with  groves  of  lofty  statuary,  with 
sculptured  fables  writ  in  stone  better  than  in  words. 
Lines  of  pilgrims  arrive  from  the  sea,  march  in  procession 
to  the  shrine  of  the  God,  bearing  rich  offerings  ;  the  world 
is  beauty,  life  is  an  eternal  holiday,  joy  rises  into  worship. 

Extensive  excavations  have  been  made  at  Delphi, 

it  is  the  design  to  make  still  more  extensive  ones,  for 
much  is  supposed  to  be  buried  under  the  village.  But 
why  should  we  dig  here?  Why  do  we  of  this  day  dig 
everywhere  in  classic  lands  —  dig  for  dear  life  to  get  pos- 
session of  a  few  fragments?  This  is  truly  the  age  of 
excavations  ;  a  strange  impulse  it  seems  ;  we  must  find  out 
what  our  ancestors  were,  even  if  they  be  monkeys.  So 
we  dig  into  the  past,  into  old  soil,  seeking  for  aught  which 
we  have  not.  Ah,  something  has  left  us,  and  we  feel  the 
void ;  the  old  Greek  world  had  what  we  have  no  longer 
and  are  searching  for.  We  seek  it,  and  well  may  we  seek 
it ;  we  long  to  complete  our  life  with  theirs,  so  our  salva- 
tion cries  out :  dig,  dig ;  restore  that  culture,  that  beautiful 
existence  in  its  best  phases,  though  it  be  but  a  fragment. 
Man  is  not  entire  till  he  be  all  that  his  race  has  been ; 
therefore  let  us  mount  to  the  sources  or  dig  down  to  the 
remains  of  our  former  selves.  The  heroes  of  the  day  are 
excavators. 

But  is  it  not  strange  that  what  man  broke  in  pious 

zeal,  he  now  piously  restores,  patching  together  the 
smallest  chips,  more  precious  than  gold,  of  heathen  idols? 
Aye,  the  conflict  is  over,  let  the  enemy  rise,  help  him  to 
his  feet.  Yet  the  sensible  traveler  would  not  wish  to  re- 
verse the  wheels  of  Time  ;  just  what  Delphi  is  now  lay  in 
hsr  own  deed  and  character,  she  has  received  nought  but 


466  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

what  had  to  be,  namely  her  own  action  in  its  consequences. 
Delphi  foretold  her  own  fate ;  when  the  seeress  predicts 
the  destiny  of  her  own  nation,  she  must  have  that  prophecy 
turned  back  upon  herself.  So,  too,  O  Delphi,  one  reads 
in  these  ruins  thy  greatest  oracle,  beholds  it  therein  ful- 
filled. Nay,  this  excavation  one  can  see  in  thy  wisdom, 
this  rejuvenation  lies,  too,  in  thy  foresight.  Men  cannot 
do  without  Delphi  —  §ven  thy  ruins  are  prophetic  ;  to-day 
still  thou  givest  responses,  nor  is  thy  oracle  yet  dumb, 
nor  will  it  be  while  these  fragments  lie  in  thy  soil. 

Yet  even  at  Delphi  there  are  marks  of  a  time  be- 
fore the  Delphic  era  —  of  a  primeval  time  which  bi'eaks 
through  the  Greek  aeons  and  reduces  them  to  children  of 
yesterday.  We  look  at  the  immense  chasm  worn  by  the 
Castalian  brook  out  of  the  solid  rock ;  in  antiquity  there 
were  steps  cut  into  that  rock  right  where  the  torrent 
abrades  the  channel.  Two  thousand  years  old  or  more 
are  those  steps,  yet  unworn  almost :  millions  of  years  then 
must  have  fled  over  Delphi  before  the  advent  of  Apollo 
or  the  slaughter  of  the  Python  upon  this  spot.  What  an 
epoch  is  counted  out  to  you  by  this  gorge  worn  by  water 
which  in  two  thousand  years  scarcely  rubs  off  the  mark 
of  the  chisel!  Greek  Delphi  is  old,  at  its  antiquity  we 
sometimes  wonder ;  but  what  is  it  compared  to  Nature  ? 
The  reign  of  Mother  Gaia  is  that  primeval  epoch  not  for- 
gotten in  Delphic  legend  ;  she  was  sovereign  of  the  rude 
chaotic  world  before  the  rule  of  Apollo.  But  even  he 
with  his  city  is  now  a  shadow  on  the  hill-side ;  yet  behind 
his  shadow  is  another  of  numberless  centuries  resting  up- 
on this  chasm  — the  shadow  of  old  Mother  Gaia. 

Thus  one  lives  back  at  Delphi,  or  just  as  well 

lives  forward.  Time,  the  final  God  of  limitation,  who 
seeks  to  put  his  fetters  upon  the  soul  to  the  last,  is  dis- 
possessed of  his  sovereignty  in  the  Delphic  world.  I  am 
above  time,  I  live  thousands  of  ages  in  a  moment ;  all  the 
past  lies  in  me,  I  am  the  germ  of  all  the  future.  All 
centuries  move  through  me  when  I  know  myself :  I  have 
no  limit  in  Time,  the  soul  is  not  bounded  by  it ;  small  as 
I  am,  yet  I  hold  the  All ;  I  make  Time  and  refuse  to  be 
made  by  it.  Strange  that  man  should  surrender  his  soul, 


THE  DELPHIC  NOTE  BOOK.  467 

immortality's  dower  —  should  imagine  it  to  be  a  creature 
of  Time  and  hunt  for  his  origin  in  Time  ;  thus  indeed  he 
reduces  himself  to  the  thrall  of  Time.  So  at  Delphi  I  am 
what  it  was,  before  it  was,  and  will  live  on  after  it  through 
the  ages.  Know  Thyself  was  the  Delphic  maxim ;  not 
without  truth  was  the  answer  of  the  satirical  rogue: 
"  What,  know  myself !  You  ask  me  to  undertake  too  big 
a  subject."  A  big  subject  indeed,  quite  All,  Time  in- 
cluded, if  understood  aright. 

Yet  Time  has  his  trophies  at  Delphi  —  the  tombs 

which  lie  on  both  sides  of  the  village,  east  and  west; 
these  are  not  to  be  neglected.  One  sees  a  large  opening 
hewn  out  of  the  solid  rock  of  the  hill  and  enters  ;  places 
are  there  for  the  ancient  urn  and  the  sarcophagus  ;  pos- 
sibly, too,  these  were  seats  for  the  living,  who  still  tried 
to  retain  the  bond  after  death.  What  does  this  untold 
labor  mean?  Some  name  of  importance  we  may  read, 
for  the  tomb  cut  in  this  rock  is  made  to  last  forever.  A 
struggle  for  immortality  mingled  with  sighs  it  is ;  pain- 
fully hewing  it  out  day  after  day  smites  the  laborer 
with  his  pick  —  millions  of  strokes  merely  for  a  tomb. 
Why  make  the  fortress  of  death  so  strong?  Can  mortal 
arm  ever  take  it?  Here,  too,  lies  a  sculptured  shape  — 
a  likeness,  we  may  suppose.  Chiseled  in  the  rock,  most 
lasting  of  materials,  it  seeks  to  be  eternal,  but  will  that 
preserve  the  fair  body?  Such  are  the  immortal  long- 
ings cut  in  the  Delphic  rocks,  enduring  some  thousands 
of  years.  No,  Apollo  says,  immortality  comes  not  thus ; 
seek  it  rather  in  that  other  Delphic  monument:  Know 
Thyself. 

There  is,  however,  stout  denial  here  as  every- 
where ;  an  enemy  to  Apollo  has  shown  himself,  still 
shows  himself  in  the  heart  of  Delphi ;  it  is  a  God,  Seis- 
mos,  the  Earthquake.  Pass  along  the  shining  cliffs,  you 
will  see  the  convulsions  of  the  Titan  fixed  in  the  stare 
of  the  sun.  Layers  of  rock  overlap,  wrench,  struggle, 
edge  against  edge ;  it  is  indeed  a  mighty  protest.  A 
huge  wedge  is  driven  into  the  mountain  aslant  by  the 
God's  maul ;  chips  and  pebbles  lie  in  the  seams.  A  great 
Titanic  arm  has  tumbled  the  earth  into  confusion;  a 


468  A    WALK  IN"  HELLAS. 

voice  says  that  discord  shall  reign.  But  when  we  come 
down  to  the  town,  we  see  the  conquest  of  Apollo  and 
his  people,  for  they  have  hewn  and  shaped  into  harmony 
even  the  rocks  of  Seismos,  and  all  Delphi  is  the  perpet- 
ual song  of  triumph  over  the  dark  God.  Still  Seismos 
is  angry  and  threatens  in  these  overhanging  cliffs ; 
Phloumbouki  leans  over  fair  Castalia  with  savage  glance, 
ready  again  to  precipitate  himself  into  her  bosom,  as  he 
did  anciently  and  yesterday,  and  hide  in  dark  caverns  her 
gladsome  waters. 

Still  another  protest,  ve  ry  different  from  that  of 

barbarous  Seismos,  can  be  heard  upon  Parnassus ;  it  is 
the  voice  of  the  new  Prometheus  who  has  again  risen, 
and  is  in  conflict  with  Zeus.  The  old  Greek  life  is  still 
here  in  the  new,  but  it  has  fallen  into  a  struggle  with  the 
newest  —  with  the  modern  culture  flowing  from  the  West. 
Thus  the  world- conquering  Titan  is  bringing  his  new  fire 
from  heaven  to  the  Greek,  and  great  is  the  upheaval 
which  is  threatened.  Dim  notes  of  the  conflict  can  be 
heard  at  Delphi  to-day,  coming  out  of  the  distance  like 
the  doom  of  Fate  ;  but  we  shall  shut  our  ears  to  the  dis- 
cordant sounds  and  listen  only  to  the  Delphic  harmonies. 

Even  on  rainy  days  Delphi  is  not  without  some 

divine  guest  —  fire  appearing  in  its  primitive  home  on  the 
hearth.  It  is  strange  how  we  all  sit  around  it,  and  look 
into  it  steadily,  as  if  bound  by  some  demonic  spell.  Only 
once  in  a  while  is  the  silence  broken  by  a  fitful  word,  but 
the  gaze  is  not  broken  ;  the  white  Palicaris  sit  there  with 
rough  bearded  faces  flared  upon  by  the  light.  Behold 
the  thousand  forms  that  the  blaze  takes,  yet  one  form 
underneath  —  a  varied  utterance,  yet  one  thing  uttered  ; 
it  is  a  God  there  forming,  playing  with  forms  which  appear 
and  disappear  in  the  breathing  of  flame.  Vulcan  is  in 
the  fire,  and  is  at  work  with  heavy  respiration ;  it  is  his 
element,  but  these  fleeting  shapes  he,  the  God,  will  make 
permanent,  fixing  eternally  what  is  divine,  in  his  Olympian 
smithy.  Mind  and  light  fraternize,  in  them  the  inner  and 
outer  become  a  mysterious  one,  speech  too  calls  them 
one.  The  soul  is  fire,  said  an  old  Greek  philosopher; 
certainly  their  kinship  is  near,  and  they  fondly  embrace 


THE  DELPHIC  NOTE  BOOK.  469 

through  the  eye ;  they  form  the  first  bond  of  friendship 
between  the  inner  and  outer  world. 

That  of  which  the  stranger  will  not  grow  weary,  is 

the  ever-changing  play  of  the  sun,  clouds  and  mountains. 
Such  variety  within  such  a  limited  space,  yet  in  mqst 
magnificent  proportion,  he  has  not  seen  elsewhere ;  he 
will  gaze  till  his  very  soul  seems  to  have  taken  its  abode 
in  the  eye.  The  blue  dome  is  striped  across  with  many  a 
white  fleecy  band,  the  sun  shifts  over  the  summits, 
shadow  and  sunshine  race  in  sport  down  the  hill-sides. 
Then  a  hole  in  the  clouds  allows  the  eye  of  Apollo  to  peer 
through,  whence  he  illumes  for  a  time  the  tops  of  the 
mountains,  setting  them  in  burning  splendor;  over  the 
leaves  of  the  Olives  full  of  silvery  sparkle  stretching  afar 
down  the  slope  he  passes,  with  a  golden  shower  often 
lighting  up  a  group  of  maidens  who  are  singing  among 
the  trees.  So  I  saw  him  to-day  hold  through  an  aperture 
in  the  clouds  a  long  gleaming  tube  of  solid  sheen,  fixing 
it  for  many  minutes  upon  a  group  of  white  and  red  forms, 
as  if  he  too  delighted  in  them  like  a  common  mortal. 

The  Parnassian  maiden  refuses  the  European  dress, 

with  its  variegated  dullness  and  parti- colored  patches. 
Only  a  peasant  girl  she  is,  but  the  white  garment  falling 
in  immaculate  folds  is  still  her  favorite  drapery.  Not 
always  immaculate  though ;  she  has  to  work  in  the  fields  ; 
but  such  is  her  inborn  instinct.  Indiscriminate  formless 
play  of  colors  is  not  her  poetry.  Two  simple  colors  she 
has,  white  and  red ;  in  happy  contrast,  yet  in  complete 
harmony ;  white  innocence  blushed  through  with  the  dawn 
of  love.  Hardly  dare  we  call  it  the  symbolism  of 
colors — it  is  the  simplest  nature,  the  purest  instinct  — 
the  freshest,  most  unalloyed  utterance  upon  these  hills, 
uttering  the  complete  music  of  passion  and  of  chastity  in 
the  human  heart. 

Often  the  people  of  Delphi  spoke  of  Zalisca  as  a 

wonder  worthy  of  being  seen.  After  some  directions 
given  by  Basili,  I  set  out  for  the  abode  of  the  nymph, 
who  was  represented  to  be  always  sitting  in  her  grot 
somewhere  in  the  deep  gorge  of  Pappadeia.  Alone  I  pass 
through  the  Olives  down  the  mountain  to  the  mouth  of 


470  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

the  chasm,  and  begin  slowly  to  creep  up  the  channel 
through  which  is  flowing  a  strong  bright  brook  of  water. 
The  walls  of  rock  get  steeper  and  higher,  the  gorge  grows 
darker,  the  stream  leaps  wilder.  Still,  here  not  far 
fpom  the  entrance  is  an  ancient  foundation,  a  small  fane, 
one  may  conjecture ;  it  is  the  introduction  to  the  wondrous 
ceremony.  Still  further  up  in  the  chasm  were  other 
stones  of  a  second  structure.  Some  ancient  passage,  we 
imagine,  full  of  solemn  beauty  ;  the  little  chapel  was  here 
with  white  column  and  statue.  But  look  above,  there  is 
Nature's  enormous  temple  carved  with  many  a  fantastic 
frieze  and  walled  up  to  the  clouds.  In  this  spot,  too,  the 
old  Greek  sought  to  make  Nature  transform  herself  into 
Art,  and  placed  here  his  beautiful  work,  which  thus  be- 
came divine,  the  habitation  of  his  Gods. 

Clambering  over  the  second  fane,  now  overgrown  with 
weeds  and  briars,  though  flowers  spring  there,  we  come 
to  the  grot  of  Zalisca.  Leaping  across  the  wild  cataract 
of  the  brook,  we  reach  the  open  door  and  look  in  ;  there 
is  indeed  the  home  of  the  nymph,  singing  in  a  still  sweet 
voice  like  Calypso.  A  clear  basin  of  water  lies  in  the 
cave,  into  the  bottom  of  which  jets  gush  up  whirling  the 
sand ;  the  ceiling  is  decked  with  thousands  of  gems  and 
figures ;  heavy  fret-work  hangs  down  wrought  of  stone ; 
while  outside  many  a  vine  trails  over  the  doorway  and 
embraces  the  mossy  rocks.  But  the  special  glory  of  the 
day  was  the  illumination  made  for  me  personally,  I  am 
fain  to  think,  by  Apollo,  who  passed  over  the  gorge  to 
the  south  just  at  mid-day  and  shone  for  a  few  moments. 
Just  as  I  came  to  the  door  he  threw  his  torch  inside  the 
grot,  when  it  was  lit  suddenly  with  a  thousand  lamps,  the 
ceiling  was  filled  with  rich  drops  of  color  like  a  new  starry 
heaven,  the  waters  became  transparent  at  a  gleam,  re- 
vealing the  fair  form  of  the  nymph,  as  she  lay  there  in 
natural  beauty.  I  confess  to  have  felt  the  shudder  which 
comes  from  the  presence  of  divinity. 

Several  times  afterwards  I  went  to  the  grot  of  Zalisca, 
always  with  a  kind  of  awe  and  with  a  secret  feeling  of  some 
ceremony.  I  felt  myself  being  ushered  through  certain 
rites  into  the  abode  of  the  nymph,  there  to  look  upon  her 


THE  DELPHI G  NOTE  BOOK.        471 

face.  Thus  at  Delphi  does  one  go  back  into  the  dim 
symbolism  of  Nature  from  the  beautiful  outer  world  of 
Art,  of  statues  and  temples  ;  into  the  dark  mystery  of  re- 
ligion he  must  grope  from  the  clear  sunshine,  seeking  to 
bear  the  light  of  Apollo  with  him.  Zalisca's  stream  is 
said  to  be  supplied  from  the  lake  on  the  Parnassian  table- 
laud,  conducted  hither  by  a  channel  underground,  whose 
waters  gush  up  into  the  lap  of  the  nymph.  For  it  has 
been  noticed  that  when  the  Parnassian  source  has  been 
dried  up  by  drouths  of  summer,  Zalisca  is  widowed  of 
her  buoyant  stream,  and  no  longer  sings  in  her  grot  with 
the  gushing  waters.  But  when  Parnassus  again  sends 
forth  his  thousand  rivulets,  Zalisca  receives  the  fresh  en- 
dowment and  begins  to  pipe  her  songs  once  more  in  her 
grot  with  new-born  joys. 

The  traveler,  in  his  solitary  walks,  will  excite 

wonder  through  the  village;  at  last  some  inhabitant  will 
address  him :  Often  I  see  thee  walking  alone  through  the 
town,  often  wandering  through  the  Olives  as  if  to  shun 
the  glances  of  the  world.  Thy  head  is  bowed  toward  the 
ground,  and  thy  lips  keep  moving;  always  with  some 
shape  thou  seemest  to  be  talking,  which  I  cannot  see. 
Ever  alone  and  alone ;  at  times,  too,  thou  makest  a  gest- 
ure in  some  earnest  dispute  and  speakest  aloud  to  an 
invisible  thing  - — what  ails  thee,  O  friend?  —  Whereto  the 
traveler  replies  in  a  questionable  way :  When  I  talk  to 
the  nymphs,  I  love  to  be  alone  ;  they  are  shy  and  refuse 
to  speak  in  the  presence  of  another  man  or  woman ;  only 
to  one  will  they  sometimes  give  a  word  —  sometimes  not 
even  to  him.  They  are  nude,  too,  and  modestly  shrink 
from  showing,  their  fair  white  forms  to  vulgar  gaze  ;  but 
for  me  solitary  they  disrobe.  Hence  I  in  my  walk  seek 
no  companions ;  the  undraped  Muse  flees  from  the  view 
of  the  stranger.  I  would  not  come  to  Delphi  to  see  thee 
and  talk  with  thee  ;  many  like  thee  I  could  have  at  home  ; 
the  inhabitants  of  another  world  than  thine  have  lured  me 
hither  with  hopes  of  fellowship  ;  when  I  can  be  with  them, 
I  must  abandon  thee,  though  thou,  I  well  know,  art  my 
good  friend. 

You  will  notice  new  beauties  in  Castalia  with  every 


472  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

visit;  some  ancient  trace  you  will  see,  which  at  once, sug- 
gests the  perfect  beautiful  thing  it  once  was.  Thus  to-day 
the  old  spouts  ranged  in  a  row  played  for  me  suddenly, 
where  before  I  had  seen  only  some  meaningless  holes  in 
the  stone.  But  the  chief  suggestion  for  one  who  stands 
and  gazes  long  at  the  fountain,  is  in  the  mild  upwhirl  of 
the  sand  ;  as  if  it  were  the  source  of  all  poetry,  he  eagerly 
asks,  whence  come  the  bright  waters?  —  From  dark  form- 
less depths ;  many  gloomy  cavernous  passages  the  stream 
traverses,  where  the  old  Gods,  Night  and  Chaos,  sit  en- 
throned ;  deep  in  the  bowels  of  the  mountain  it  winds, 
receiving  a  drop  of  coolness  here  and  of  flavor  there. 
Who  will  trace  it,  who  can  dig  it  out  of  the  entrails  of 
Parnassus  ?  No  analytic  pickax  and  spade  will  do  it  suc- 
cessfully ;  leave  it  alone,  let  it  gurgle  through  its  dark 
channel;  when  the  appointed  time  comes,  it  will  leap 
forth  to  the  sun  in  transparent  beauty,  and  quench  our 
thirst  with  its  refreshing  waters. 

Scum  lies  now  on  the  surface  of  Castalia  which  the 
pious  traveler  will  skim  off  by  means  of  a  branch  with  a 
bushy  top.  Unseemly  weeds,  too,  bedraggle  the  translu- 
cent ripples ;  these,  also,  he  will  pluck  out,  in  part  at 
least.  Mosses  gently  waving  under  the  surface  along  the 
bottom  of  the  basin  he  will  leave  standing,  for  they  yield 
calmly  to  the  soft  pulsations  of  the  welling  streams.  In- 
numerable small  jets  throb  from  the  bottom  and  lightly 
whirl  the  sand,  not  enough  to  disturb  the  clearness  of  the 
water,  but  sufficient  to  show  its  incessant  activity  under 
the  crystalline  surface.  They  come  up  like  the  bubblings 
of  inspiration  ;  underneath,  from  deep  unseen  well-heads 
they  send  forth  fair  cooling  drops,  yet  the  fount  never 
grows  turbid  in  its  tireless  endeavor.  Some  message  the 
waters  bring  to  the  sunlight  from  obscure  depths,  but  the 
moment  they  are  touched  by  the  rays  of  Apollo  they  drop 
back  into  transparent  repose,  so  that  the  surface  is  never 
troubled.  But  mark,  beneath  the  calm  waters  the  eternal 
activity  can  ever  be  seen  in  the  thousand  little  cones  of 
bubbling  sand,  and  this  real  fountain  is  transformed  un- 
der the  very  eye  to  an  image  of  the  Muse. 

Even  the  donkey  is  a  poetical  beast  at  Delphi  and 


THE  DELPHIC   NOTE  BOOK.  473 

drinks  from  the  Castalian  rill  as  he  enters  the  village. 
He  marches  up  and  sips  unconsciously,  backward  and 
forward  move  his  ears  in  a  kind  of  chorus,  loud  resounds 
the  music  of  his  bray  over  Parnassus.  More  serene,  too, 
becomes  his  obstinacy,  often  he  refuses  to  budge  from 
the  sweet  song  of  the  rivulet,  in  whose  waters  he  is  fain 
to  lie  down,  trying  to  meditate  the  Muse  in  her  native 
source.  He  buries  his  broad  nose  in  the  stream,  moves 
his  long  ears  —  longer  here  than  elsewhere  on  the  face 
of  the  globe  I  think  —  and  he  brays  his  prolonged  hex- 
ametrical  modulation :  the  traveler  may  well  wonder 
whether  he,  too,  hears  the  nymph. 

1  tried,   in   one  of  my  moods,  to  dress  Castalia 

in  rhymes,  but  the  nymph  spurned  the  jingling  garments. 
Some  musical  longing,  an  inner  melody,  one  always 
feels  at  Delphi ;  indeed  it  gives  the  mind  no  peace  till 
there  is  found  for  it  some  adequate  utterance.  For  the 
soul  frees  itself  in  the  voiced  wavelets  of  air,  and  there- 
in finds  happiness ;  it  must  be  rocked  upon  them  aud 
soothed  by  them,  moving  in  deep  correspondence  with 
them  ;  it  is  an  instrument  struck  by  this  Delphic  Nature, 
whereby  it  vibrates  and  rings  in  perpetual  pulsations. 
But  Castalia  refuses  the  modern  crinkle- crankle,  the 
superficial  jingle  of  sweet  sound.  She  said:  Give  me 
the  old  drapery,  or  something  like  it,  for  that  reveals  the 
fair  form  even  under  its  cover ;  beneath  its  delicate  folds 
movement  will  show  itself  in  a  thousand  echoes.  Give 
me  the  old  music  which  harmonizes  the  body  into  its 
cadence,  and  does  not  dissolve  the  mind  into  dulcet, 
formless  sound.  Rhythm  is  my  being  —  spurn  the 
jingle. 

Too  well  I  know,  continued  the  nymph,  my  white 

folds  do  not  please  you  moderns.  They  are  white  and 
impassive,  to  you  they  seem  without  color  and  without 
feeling.  Nor  can  you  gaze  at  my  step  with  delight,  for 
I  seek  the  quiet  graces  of  mere  movement ;  your  wild 
dance  stifles  the  ease-breathing  chorus.  Nor  does  my 
music  please  .you,  controlling  simply  the  motions  of  ni}' 
body  ;  hexameters  you  banish  with  their  long  free  stride. 
Travelers  come  and  see  me,  then  go  home  and  traduce 


474  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

me:  even  the  Greek  of  to-day,  though  he  praise  and  be 
proud  of  me,  casts  off  my  folds  and  follows  your  fashion. 

The  true-hearted  visitor  answered :  Truly  hast  thou 
spoken,  O  nymph,  but  I  shall  drink  of  thy  waters  with 
a  new  joy,  and  all  day  wander  along  the  stream  as  it 
flows  through  the  Olives.  I  shall  dance  too  in  thy  cho- 
rus, taking  delight  in  thy  measures,  though  I,  a  stranger, 
move  awkwardly,  and  cannot  acquire  the  full  grace 
of  thy  step  and  motion.  Even  thy  garments  I  shall 
dress  me  in,  and  attune  my  gait  to  thy  rhythm,  though 
all  Parnassus  laugh  at  the  strange  figure.  Nay,  though 
I  be  alone  in  my  devotion,  and  though  men  mock  thee 
and  me,  still  at  thy  shrine  I  shall  worship. 

Last  night  I  paid  a  visit  to  the  fair  Flower  of 

Delphi,  Louloutha,  having  been  invited  by  the  father. 
We  ascended  the  outside  stair  to  an  upper  story,  where 
an  ancient  balcony  hung  over  the  street.  When  the  com- 
pany sat  down  by  the  fire,  the  wine  was  brought,  she 
filled  the  glasses,  I  never  saw  anything  more  winningly 
done.  She  is  truly  a  Delphic  appearance  ;  with  blushing 
smile  she  withdrew  to  the  window,  when  she  noticed  that 
she  had  attracted  attention.  Her  eye  curious,  yet  modest, 
would  casually  look  up,  then  drop  down,  meeting  the 
glance  of  the  stranger.  A  Greek  maiden,  and  just  at  the 
Greek  period  of  the  maiden's  life,  she  lives  in  that  happy 
golden  world  which  hovers  between  what  she  knows  and 
what  she  does  not  know.  The  woman  is  within  her,  yet 
she  is  not  aware  of  it ;  in  thought  she  is  a  child,  but  her 
actions  speak  innocently  of  something  deeper  than  thought. 
What  art  thou,  O  Louloutha?  Childhood  is  past;  con- 
cious  womanhood  is  not  yet  present ;  truly  the  Delphic 
period  of  thy  sex.  There  is  the  conflict  seen  in  her  which 
forever  makes  the  maiden  interesting  to  man,  makes  her 
more  than  herself,  raises  her  into  a  type  almost  wor- 
shipful. She  is  not,  yet  is;  she  will  not,  yet  will  —  the 
opening  rose  which  more  enticingly  reveals  the  redness 
within  by  half  a  disclosure.  We  behold  in  her  the  happy 
musical  oneness  between  the  inner  and  outer  world  which 
is  the  soul  of  Greece,  of  all  Greek  work.  She  indeed 
stands  for  much. 


THE  DELPHIC  NOTE  BOOK.  475 

She  is  called  out  of  her  retreat  by  her  mother,  and  re- 
signs herself  tremblingly  to  be  looked  upon  by  a  man's 
eye  with  favor ;  innocence  it  is,  yet  a  gazing  out  upon  an 
immeasurable  sea  ;  a  presentiment  she  becomes  of  all  that 
she  is  to  be.  She  seems  to  look  down  Time  and  transmit 
herself  as  an  image  to  the  future ;  she  will  be  again,  often 
again.  At  another  glance  she  remounts  to  the  past,  she 
appears  the  transmitted  image  of  the  ancient  Delphic 
world ;  she  has  been  before,  often  before.  Of  her  own 
accord  she  brings  a  quince  and  pares  thin  wafers  of  it  into 
the  wine,  which  thereby  receives  a  new  delicious  flavor 
from  her  hand,  indeed  from  her  soul.  I  sip  the  beverage 
slowly,  and  seek  to  engage  her  words  or  at  least  her  looks  ; 
not  a  syllable  she  uttered,  yet  she  gave  all  she  had ;  it 
was  the  old  Delphic  heart  which  still  throbbed  in  her 
young  life.  Long  I  talked  to  the  father  while  she  listened, 
but  really  I  was  talking  to  her  —  the  lovely  image  of  Del- 
phi, to  me  the  fairest,  freshest  appearance  of  the  Old  in 
the  New. 

Nor  shall  I  forget  the  last  time  I  went  to  see  Cas- 

talia,  most  generous  nymph,  who  for  so  many  weeks  had 
met  me  with  a  smile  every  morning,  and  had  refreshed  me 
with  a  cooling  draught  every  mid-day ;  who  had  thrown 
back  to  me  so  joyously  innumerable  Delphic  images  from 
her  transparent  depths,  to  remain  mine  forever.  I  reached 
down  and  trailed  my  fingers  in  the  water ;  therein  I  could 
not  help  seeing  my  own  visage  more  clearly  reflected  than 
ever  before,  as  I  thought  of  departure,  asking :  Shall  I  be- 
hold her  again  ?  The  question  at  first  caused  the  tears  to 
start ;  but  soon  I  was  at  peace  with  myself,  for  an  assur- 
ance came  from  a  voice  within :  I  know  I  shall  behold  thee 
again  ;  there  can  be  henceforth  no  permanent  separation  ; 
often  I  shall  visit  thee  and  drink ;  during  my  entire  life 
thy  image  shall  not  go  from  me  and  thy  mirrowing  depths 
shall  abide  with  me.  —  As  I  went  toward  the  fountain,  I 
was  full  of  the  melancholy  of  parting ;  but  as  I  left  it, 
bearing  the  last  reflection  of  itself  within  me,  I  was  buoyed 
with  the  presentiment  of  return,  indeed  of  many  returns. 


476  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS. 


XXII.     THE  DELPHIC  FAUN. 

After  lingering  some  days  at  Delphi,  the  traveler  will 
feel  a  strong  desire  to  wander  over  the  mountain  back  of 
the  town,  and  see  with  his  own  eyes  what  may  be  there, 
and  not  hear  it  merely  from  others.  Already  certain 
strolls  have  been  taken  in  that  direction,  but  now  a  whole 
Delphic  day  must  be  given  to  the  task.  The  high  plain 
lies  above  in  sunshine,  and  the  summits  in  snow ;  a  strug- 
gle, too,  is  going  on  between  the  seasons  with  alternating 
line  of  victory  mai-ked  on  the  slopes.  What  then  lies  be- 
hind Delphi?  is  the  question  to  be  answered  by  this  day's 
walk. 

In  the  ascent  one  will  first  pass  through  the  ancient 
Stadion,  and  will  fill  its  seats  with  an  ever-rising  sea  of 
faces ;  in  company  with  that  multitude  he  will  listen  to 
a  chant  or  lyric  measures  in  praise  of  the  victor,  or  in 
praise  of  the  Hero  or  God.  That  song  speaks  of  the 
aforetime  when  man  and  deity  dwelt  together;  stiU  it 
seeks  to  bring  back  some  image  of  the  Divine  to  the 
eager  throng.  The  hill-side  overflows  with  the  music ;  it 
is  Delphi  seeking  to  sing  its  own  origin  to  itself,  to 
explain  the  miracle  of  its  own  harmonious  existence. 
The  hymn  goes  far  back  of  the  town  and  throbs  in  unison 
with  the  rise  of  its  temples  into  musical  utterance.  But 
having  viewed  the  happy  festal  procession,  and  having 
caught  the  soul  of  the  hymn,  we  turn  our  look  up  the 
steep. 

There  is  an  ancient  pathway  cut  into  the  solid  rock, 
winding  through  these  huge  stony  splinters ;  little  land- 
ing places  you  will  observe  in  this  path  overlooking 
town  and  vale ;  here  too  are  marks  of  an  old  foundation 
chiseled  upon  the  mountain  side.  The  house  which  stood 
on  this  spot  commands  a  particularly  fine  view;  the 
bright  ribbon  of  Pleistus  is  quivering  far  below  through 
the  valley;  over  the  long  waves  of  olive  tree-tops  we 
behold  the  blue  Corinthian  waters  bending  gracefully 


THE  DELPHIC  FAUN.  477 

behind  a  hill  out  of  sight ;  in  the  foreground  lay  an- 
ciently white  colonnaded  Delphi.  The  view  was  a  poem  ; 
it  was  an  image  of  the  Greek  world,  with  its  setting  of 
nature  and  its  Delphic  soul  in  the  center.  From  this 
center  the  landscape  vibrates  melodiously  to-day.  Pindar 
was  the  man  who  put  this  melodious  vibration  into  his 
lines ;  here  then  we  may  place  his  house  when  he  so- 
journed at  Delphi. 

It  is  still  early  in  the  morning,  and  the  sun  has  just 
risen  to  a  horizontal  line  with  the  summits  above  Delphi ; 
the  God  is  hurling  his  golden  fires  against  the  top  of  the 
crag,  shooting  them  as  if  from  the  muzzles  of  millions  of 
unseen  muskets.  One  turns  about  and  looks,  after 
mounting  to  the  crest;  a  cataract  of  sunbeams  now 
pours  over  the  heights  of  Phloumbouki  into  the  lap  of  the 
little  village,  which  rests  strangely  transfigured  in  the 
blaze.  View  it  again,  though  often  seen  before ;  then 
face  about  and  enter  this  high  plain. 

Not  a  human  being  is  visible,  nor  does  this  seem  a 
place  for  a  human  being ;  still  the  wayfarer  appears  not 
to  be  altogether  without  company.  There  is  a  kind  of 
intoxication  in  the  air,  and  some  little  sprite  hovers 
about  that  is  handing  him  the  beverage.  Who  is  it  ?  I 
cannot  tell,  but  I  know  that  I  am  not  alone.  The  path 
winds  along  to  a  mountain  lake,  silent,  imaging  quiet 
peaks ;  the  little  lake  gathers  the  springs  of  Parnassus, 
and  melting  snows ;  through  the  dark  earth  it  seeks  an 
outlet,  and  breaks  forth  at  last  into  that  grot  of  beauty 
below  Delphi,  where  we  beheld  Nymph  Zalisca  sitting  on 
her  throne ;  from  her  hand  the  stream  dashes  down  into 
the  plain,  watering  many  an  olive  tree  in  its  course,  till  it 
finally  passes  into  the  azure  serenity  of  the  sea ;  thence 
some  drop  of  the  mirroring  Parnassian  lakelet  washes 
every  shore  of  the  earth,  even  to  our  own. 

One  will  skirt  its  banks  a  short  distance,  throwing  into 
its  waters  now  and  then  a  pebble  which  it  swallows  with 
an  audible  gulp  ;  thus  it  too  is  a  sort  of  being  endowed 
with  a  voice  and  furnishes  company.  The  town  of 
empty  huts  is  next  reached,  Kalyvia  it  is  called,  and  used 
for  summer  residence.  There  is  still  a  noise  in  its  de- 


478  A    WALK  IX  HELLAS. 

serted  streets,  the  silent  hum  of  absent  villagers ;  the  air 
is  yet  vibrating  low  with  the  voices  left  here  last  summer, 
and  will  continue  the  vibration  to  eternity,  —  for  how  can 
that  sound,  once  set  a-going  cease?  Words,  left  to  wan- 
der, never  wholly  vanish ;  let  us  beware  of  the  wrong 
word ;  to  the  new  spiritual  ear  of  the  speaker  it  will  be 
coming  back  to  his  Last  Judgment.  Still  one  hears  the 
faint  speech  of  men  swinging  in  infinitesimal  wavelets  on 
the  air  with  many  a  strange  commingling  of  antique 
voices.  What  they  say  cannot  easily  be  told ;  they 
leave,  however,  some  strong  impression,  which  attunes 
like  a  prelude. 

The  path  forks ;  which  road  now  is  to  be  taken  ?  There 
is  no  voice  to  tell ;  there  is  no  form  of  flesh  and  blood  to 
give  body  to  these  uncertain  sounds  of  solitude.  One 
will  look  through  the  huts  for  some  guiding  word ;  he 
will  be  disappointed,  and  must  fall  back  upon  himself. 
Shall  we  turn  round?  This  side  of  Delphi  has  become 
familiar;  bright  it  is  and  very  noble;  we  have  seen  it 
spring  from  the  mountain  in  beautiful  forms ;  but  can  we 
not  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  obverse  side  ?  Many  hints  we 
have  had  already  of  some  strange  hidden  world  upon  these 
heights  and  amid  these  lofty  woods ;  without  delay,  then, 
let  us  continue  the  search. 

So  the  traveler  selects  a  way  for  himself,  allured  by  a 
pleasant  glen  of  pines  which  promise  good  company ;  up 
through  the  fragrant  conifers  he  winds  slowly,  giving  full 
control  to  the  unseen  guide.  The  path  is  hardly  visible, 
footsteps  have  at  times  passed  this  way,  rarely  the  track 
of  the  donkey  can  be  noticed.  Once  in  a  while  there  is 
a  trace  of  the  woodman  who  has  left  his  chips  and  lopped 
branches  as  a  friendly  salutation  to  the  lonely  wanderer. 
Deep  silence,  overglowed  with  weird  sunlight  holds  all 
the  trees  in  a  dumb,  yet  attentive  posture ;  look  at  this 
muffled  pine,  he  is  listening,  but  to  what?  The  way- 
farer will  stop  and  listen  too ;  not  without  a  slight  shud- 
der lest  he  hear  something  which  is  permitted  only  to  the 
trees  to  hear. 

The  sunlight  falls  pleasantly  among  the  green  tree 
tops,  and  comes  dangling  in  patches  to  the  ground  un- 


THE  DELPHIC  FAUN.  479 

derneath ;  these  ragged  golden  patches  are  favorite  rest- 
ing places  for  the  eye,  possibly  too  for  the  nimble  spirits 
of  the  woods,  which  seem  to  flit  out  of  them  at  the  intru- 
sion of  a  human  glance.  One  looks  up  the  whole  slant 
of  the  mountain  against  which  the  sun  is  shining ;  what 
sport  is  there  ?  Sunbeams  and  needle-leaves  are  wrestling 
with  changeful  victory  for  the  possession  of  the  entire 
slope  ;  nor  can  one  help  seeing  that  other  beings  are  there 
who  dance  for  joy  through  the  lights  and  shadows  of  the 
combat —  a  chorus  of  Hamadryads  living  in  secret  sym- 
pathy with  the  trees,  and  forming  the  people  of  that  city 
called  a  forest. 

Not  a  living  person  is  met,  scarcely  a  trace  of  human- 
ity is  seen,  still  the  persistent  fact  is,  that  the  wayfarer  is 
not  without  some  society.  At  first  he  is  unconscious  of 
any  presence,  but  after  walking  a  little  while  through  the 
woods  he  wakes  up  to  the  knowledge  that  he  is  not  alone, 
and  he  wonders  who  it  can  be  that  is  following.  A 
slight  terror  is  felt  at  that  unseen  companion  who  skips 
away  behind  the  trees  as  soon  as  one  tries  to  look  at  him ; 
the  voice,  too,  vanishes  when  one  stops  to  listen  to  what 
it  may  be  saying.  A  small  panic  is  experienced  in  the 
breast  throbbing  audibly  between  two  held  breaths,  as 
one  hearkens  again ;  this  panic  is  sent  by  the  God  Fan, 
who  dwells  in  the  forest,  and  punishes  in  such  manner 
those  who  intrude  upon  his  s}rlvan  solemnities.  The  old 
Greek,  passing  through  this  glen  to-day,  would  have  seen 
the  deity  with  his  whole  train  of  nymphs  celebrating  their 
rites,  and  would  have  heard  and  remembered  their  song, 
would  have  sung  it  himself  at  their  next  festival. 

Several  miles  we  thus  pass  up  a  gentle  slope,  pine-clad  ; 
the  forenoon  sun  is  always  getting  higher,  till  at  last  he 
pours  down  his  beams  quite  parallel  to  the  trees,  and 
smites  the  traveler  straight  upon  the  head.  The  latter 
comes  to  the  ridge  which  divides  the  range  and  begins  to 
descend  gradually  ;  here  is  the  turning  point  to  the  other 
side  of  the  Delphic  slope.  This  is  the  snow-line  too,  now 
driven  by  the  sun  higher  up  the  mountain,  like  a  re- 
treating foe.  Just  here  is  the  battle-field :  many  a  little 
path  of  melting  snow,  as  if  mortally  wounded  and  bleed- 


480  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

ing  to  death,  is  seen  in  covert  places  and  lying  under 
protecting  rocks  and  bushes.  The  pedestrian,  somewhat 
thirsty,  will  snatch  up  dripping  handfuls  of  it  as  he 
passes,  and  hold  it  to  his  parched  lips,  whose  thirst,  how- 
ever, refuses  to  be  slaked  by  such  a  draught. 

Nor  can  we  oinit  to  notice  the  vast  quantity  of  loose 
stones  that  are  strewn  everywhere  along  our  path,  as 
if  some  Titanic  sower  had  scattered  them  like  seeds  of 
wheat  over  the  grainfield.  Here  upon  Parnassus,  says 
the  legend,  Deucalion  and  Pyrrha  were  left  the  sole 
survivors  after  the  flood  ;  here  upon  this  very  spot,  per- 
haps, that  curious  casting  of  rocks  took  place,  where- 
by Mother  Pyrrha,  throwing  these  stones  behind  her, 
begot  the  destroyed  human  race  anew  in  a  great  hurry, 
for  each  stone  sprang  up  a  full-grown  man.  Such  a  feat 
is  indeed  possible  only  upon  Parnassus  —  to  change  the 
rock  to  a  living  man ;  but  the  touch  of  Pyrrha  is  no  longer 
to  be  found  among  the  Parnassian  women.  Still  the  con- 
soling reflection  can  be  made  that  there  are  enough  stones 
left  here  to  re-establish  the  race  a  second  time  in  case  of 
flood  or  other  calamity. 

We  now  enter  a  small  cultivated  plain ;  very  small, 
but  a  few  hundred  yards  in  length  and  less  in  breadth ; 
this  is  wheat  growing  upon  it  in  little  green  blades, 
and  yonder  are  three  huts.  A  mysterious  tract ;  abrupt 
mountainous  cliffs  snow-capped  hem  it  in  with  a  sort  of 
fond  look  down  into  it ;  shut  off  wholly  from  the  world  it 
lies  in  the  lofty  bosom,  veritably  snow-white,  of  Parnas- 
sus, not  far  from  the  top.  Not  an  inhabitant  can  be 
seen,  not  a  child  at  play  before  the  door  of  the  hut ;  it, 
too,  is  completely  deserted,  and  over  it  hovers  that  audi- 
ble silence  sending  through  the  new  comer  its  panicky 
shudders.  There  is  no  doubt  that  one  has  a  feeling  of 
intrusion,  he  has  come  upon  some  band  of  dwellers  un- 
expectedly though  he  behold  nought ;  he  has  interrupted 
some  ceremony  by  his  human  presence.  Look  up  at  the 
mountains  now;  they  threaten,  filled  with  shapes  whose 
chorus  below  was  scattered  by  the  stranger's  sudden 
advent.  Let  us  go  past  those  huts,  perhaps  they  con- 
tain somebody  of  our  kin ;  the  road  leads  a  little  distance 


THE  DELPHIC  FAUN.  481 

in  front  of  them ;  one  door  stands  slightly  ajar,  but  there 
is  no  human  appearance  or  apparition.  With  a  still 
greater  panic,  which  will  be  taken  as  a  warning  of  the  God 
Pan,  one  will  hurry  by  without  stopping  to  investigate 
those  huts  or  their  contents ;  he  will  not  defy  the 
divine  admonition,  nor  does  he  care  to  meet  face  to  face 
that  strange -speaking  companion  who  still  flits  at  his  side. 
As  he  emerges  from  the  plain  he  looks  back;  the  dis- 
sonance caused  by  his  presence  is  vanishing,  the  har- 
mony of  that  little  world  seems  restored  as  he  departs, 
and  the  nymphs  with  rude  satyrs  begin  again  the  dance ; 
this  is  the  home  of  their  revels. 

Thus  we  continue  the  unusual  journey  behind  Delphi ; 
it  has  brought  us  into  contact  with  a  new  set  of  beings, 
with  glimpses  into  a  new  world :  What  can  it  be  ?  Never 
mind ;  we  are  going  on.  Here  we  enter  a  deep  dark  cleft 
where  mid-day  turns  to  twilight ;  above  the  head  the 
mountain  overhangs  and  threatens  to  cast  itself ,  down 
upon  the  puny  wayfarer,  as  he  looks  up  at  the  lofty 
ledges  swinging  in  the  skies.  What  is  a  man  here  ?  The 
might  of  the  mountain  overwhelms  this  petty  individu- 
ality ;  a  person  is  naught,  and  may  be  thankful  if  the  giant 
will  only  let  him  pass.  What  if  the  old  deity  would 
loosen  his  hold  upon  one  overhanging  rock?  Here,  too, 
is  a  voice  that  speaks  and  takes  on  a  shape  correspond- 
ing with  the  utterance  ;  it  is  not  that  joyous  mysterious 
voice  which  comes  from  sunshine  playing  amid  the  pines  ; 
not  that  deeper  voice  of  interrupted  solitude  over  the 
plain;  this  is  the  secret  mutter  of  the  mountain  hold- 
ing back  convulsion  and  fierce  outbreak.  A  hoarser, 
more  terrible  voice ;  listen  to  it  rumbling  amid  these 
rocky  bowels-,  and  form  an  image  of  the  monster,  then 
pass  on. 

I  have,  however,  repeatedly  thought  of  turning  back, 
having  seen  enough  of  the  other  side  of  Parnassus.  But 
there  is  some  demonic  power  which  entices  forward  — 
these  new  and  changing  utterances  furnish  alluring  com- 
pany to  the  hesitating  tourist.  Yet  they  have  a  strange 
law ;  they  are  loudest  when  you  do  not  hear  them ;  if 
you  listen,  they  vanish  upon  the  air.  It  is  a  ghostly 

31 


482  A   WALK  IN  HELLAS, 

company  indeed ;  they  stay  at  your  side  if  you  do  not  trv 
to  think  who  they  are  ;  you  can  see  them  skipping  through 
the  sunny  landscape  and  fragrant  pines,  if  you  do  not  at- 
tempt to  look  at  them  ;  you  seem  to  know  them  best  when 
you  do  not  know  them  at  all.  Such  is  the  riddle  with  its 
enticement  everywhere ;  the  dark  glen,  the  light  wood, 
the  sudden  precipice  start  it  into  life  ;  even  the  panic  with 
its  shudder  allures.  Fine  views  break  from  the  distance 
at  intervals,  like  harmonious  swells  of  music  from  beyond ; 
that  other  world  behind  the  visible  one  is  the  strong  abid- 
ing fact,  and  leads  you.  irresistibly  into  its  unseen  domain. 
I  had  better  turn  back,  but  the  truth  is,  I  am  infatuated, 
and  so  go  on,  not  being  really  in  possession  of  myself. 

As  I  come  out  of  a  little  patch  of  trees  and  reach  a 
far-extending  mountain  slope,  I  hear  a  noise  quite  faint. 
It  is  a  new  tone  in  a  new  locality ;  a  few  steps  further  and 
I  hear  it  again ;  I  listen,  it  can  be  heard  continuously, 
and  not  vanishingly.  This  is,  then,  a  real  sound,  be- 
longing clearly  to  this  sensible  world,  and  permits  itself 
to  be  caught  and  held  by  the  outer  ear.  It  creeps  around 
the  mountain  side,  growing  clearer  and  more  definite  as  I 
advance ;  what  can  it  be  ?  I  conclude  that  the  sound 
comes  from  running  or  falling  water,  though  I  cannot  see 
anything  of  the  kind.  A  moment  more  and  I  am  stand- 
ing on  the  brink  of  a  brook  hid  among  the  grass  and 
stones,  flowing  down  the  side  of  the  mountain,  which  is 
not  steep  enough  to  make  a  cascade,  but  sufficiently 
slanting  to  produce  a  strong  rapid  rush  of  the  current. 
Moreover,  the  slant  is  even  and  very  long  so  that  the 
stream  darts  down  in  a  straight  crystalline  band  almost 
from  the  top  to  the  very  foot  of  the  mountain,  making  a 
wild  melody  with  the  pebbles  in  its  course.  Clear,  spark- 
ling, beautiful,  springs  the  rivulet  j  a  silvery  ribbon,  which 
one  might  think  of  picking  up  from  the  slope  where  it  lies. 
I  lean  down  and  put  my  hands  into  it ;  but  it  will  not 
suffer  itself  to  be  lifted  except  by  palmf uls  to  the  hot 
temples  and  thirsty  lips,  which  are  now  freshened  with  a 
new  life. 

Its  music,  too,  you  will  hear  after  sitting  beside  it  for 
a  while  ;  there  is  a  rise  and  fall  of  sound,  notes  higher  and 


THE  DELPHIC  FAUN.  483 

lower,  form  a  kind  of  tune  which  gives  a  certain  melody 
to  the  solitude.  A  natural  harmony,  though  rude  ;  still  it 
is  a  harmony  and  brings  all  the  surroundings  into  unison, 
so  that  you  may  well  say,  this  is  a  musical  spot,  where 
Nature  breaks  forth  into  melodious  expression.  Another 
fact  you  will  mark,  as  you  sit  and  listen  ;  the  stream  has 
a  key-note,  around  which  its  other  notes  move,  and  to 
which  it  is  attuned :  Niagara,  too,  has  such  a  note,  and 
the  Ocean  itself.  So  we  hear  the  primitive  musical  instru- 
ment of  Nuture  played  upon  by  the  unseen  hand  —  whose 
shall  we  call  it?  Little  difference  does  it  make,  so  we 
catch  the  music  and  cause  it  to  play  within  us. 

Thus  the  weary  wayfarer  greets  the  brook  as  a  friend  ; 
its  babble  will  soon  banish  all  panic  from  his  breast,  and 
its  look,  as  it  joyously  dances  down  the  side  of  the  mount- 
ain in  the  sunshine,  will  refresh  him  quite  as  much  as  a 
draught  of  its  waters.  After  sporting  with  it  a  while  and 
enjoying  its  melodious  ripple,  he  will  feel  like  turning  up 
the  slope  to  the  fountain  head  of  so  much  music  and 
mirthfulness.  A  pleasant  saunter  along  its  edge  will 
bring  him  to  a  piece  of  ground  spreading  out  like  a  fan, 
on  which  hundreds  of  liitle  sources  gush  up,  and  soon 
unite  their  streamlets  into  the  brook.  Here  is  an  ancient 
trough,  hewn  out  of  stone  and  covered  with  moss  and  rust ; 
other  dressed  stones  lie  about,  which  the  imagination  at 
once  builds  into  a  shrine  of  the  spring-nymphs.  It  is  a 
sacred  spot,  joyous,  useful  too,  singing  an  eternal  hymn ; 
not  without  reverence  may  one  still  regard  it. 

In  the  midst  of  the  gurgling  well-heads  is  a  smooth 
seat,  a  single  stone  upon  which  one  may  sit  down  with  the 
little  company  around  him.  There  is  solitude  yet,  but  no 
shudder  comes ;  the  sunlight,  the  pines,  and  the  brook 
are  in  complete  harmony  and  attune  the  soul  peacefully 
to  their  strain.  But  hark!  what  is  that  new  sound? 
Amid  the  notes  of  the  purling  waters  was  suddenly 
mingled  a  human  voice,  or  what  seemed  such.  Then  it 
vanished  into  the  sound  of  the  brook  and  was  forgotten. 
But  soon  it  returns  and  speaks  more  plainly  than  before ; 
what  does  it  say  ?  That  I  cannot  tell ;  but  so  much  is 
manifest:  these  are  words,  not  mere  unbroken  sound; 


484  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

they  are  articulated,  wrought  into  the  chain  of  humaa 
speech ;  they  seem  the  words  of  children  talking  near  by, 
so  real  that  I  look  up  to  see  them.  I  try  to  hear  them 
again,  but  they  refuse  to  come  back  at  my  bidding,  and 
gradually  I  get  to  thinking  about  other  matters.  But 
presently  the  talking  is  heard  once  more  —  a  conversation 
as  of  question  and  answer ;  yet  when  I  am  fully  awake  to 
it,  at  once  it  stops.  This  startles  me,  and  the  panic 
slightly  returns ;  there  is  no  human  shape  present,  yet 
there  is  articulate  speech  upon  this  ground.  More- 
over it  balks  my  will,  it  cannot  be  heard  by  effort,  only  in 
the  unconscious  world  does  it  speak  to  me ;  it  selects  the 
moment  of  utterance,  not  I.  Clearly  it  belongs  not  to  my 
self-conscious  life ;  a  strange  unaccountable  thing  in  the 
brook,  which  fascinates  —  possibly  a  divinity.  Can  it  be 
the  nymphs  of  the  stream  who  are  thus  chatting  together, 
and  are  they  realities  ? 

This  is  the  voice  that  the  shepherd  hears,  that  the  old 
Greek  heard  when  he  fabled  of  Naiads  speaking  in  the 
fountain  and  enticing  men ;  it  is  a  veritable  voice.  I 
would  like  to  hear  it  again,  but  it  will  not  speak,  how- 
ever much  I  listen.  Gradually  the  mind  drifts  away  into 
the  distant  mountain  haze,  and  is  lost  there,  forgetting 
the  nymphs.  Suddenly  the  voice  speaks  once  more,  now 
just  at  my  feet ;  I  have  it,  I  catch  a  little  of  it,  and  drag 
it  into  my  conscious  state.  One  small  ripple  tells  the  se- 
cret, it  continued  to  prattle  when  it  ought  to  have  kept 
silent.  It  is  the  water  which  articulates  at  certain  inter- 
vals ;  these  thousand  little  cascades  leaping  over  the  peb- 
bles form  the  chain  of  successive  sounds  at  certain  mo- 
ments, and  then  break  off ;  moreover  these  sounds  may 
be  loud  or  low,  like  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  human  voice, 
with  manifold  modulation. 

The  peculiarity  of  the  noise  rising  from  the  flowing 
water  is  this  articulation  or  linking  together  of  sounds 
like  the  speech  of  man.  Then  it  ceases  after  babbling 
its  meaningless  words  upon  the  air.  The  brook  being 
very  shallow  and  wide  at  this  point  rushes  over  innu- 
merable little  obstructions,  and  forms  these  short  watery 
vocables  in  succession;  thus  it  seems  to  talk,  to  utter 


THE  DELPHIC  FAUN.  485 

for  a  moment  syllabled  speech.  In  a  higher  or  lower  key, 
in  the  tone  of  children  and  grown  people,  in  question  and 
response,  quite  all  the  phases'  of  language  are  to  be 
heard ;  then  the  new  tongue  loses  itself  in  the  continu- 
ous gurgle  of  the  brook.  It  is  a  brave  struggle ;  the 
waters  try  to  speak,  and  sometimes  do  articulate,  but 
they  soon  drop  back  into  their  indiscriminate  babble,  and 
the  new  words  are  drowned  in  the  rushing  current.  The 
brook  certainly  attempts  to  talk,  and  you  cannot  help 
listening. 

Such  is  the  language  of  the  nymphs,  not  put  down  in 
the  works  of  erudition,  and  being  without  grammar  and 
dictionary.  In  the  welling  sources,  in  the  long  glide  of 
the  crystalline  stream  down  the  mountain  is  hidden  a 
voice ;  the  old  mythus  speaks  that  voice,  and  it  can  be 
heard  to-day.  I  now  recollect  that  this  is  no  new  ex- 
perience, that  I  have  heard  this  sound  before  along  the 
brink  of  stony  brooks,  that  in  former  days  I  have  turned 
at  some  word  of  the  rill  to  see  who  was  talking.  But 
never  till  now  has  the  matter  risen  out  of  the  Lethe  of 
unconsciousness  ;  for  one  must  be  unconscious  at  first  in 
order  to  hear  the  voice ;  when  I  sought  to  catch  it  ever 
so  slightly,  it  was  already  gone  ;  through  that  dark  world 
alone  will  it  come  to  daylight. 

But  what  do  the  nymphs  say?  you  ask.  It  is  simply 
an  articulate  sound,  the  word  laden  with  spiritual  mean- 
ing it  is  not.  Yet  it  speaks  to  the  soul  in  subtle  har- 
monious suggestion ;  it  has  many  a  curious  modulation, 
there  is  a  certain  character  in  its  sound  too ;  it  has  a 
note  of  persuasion,  as  if  it  sought  to  entice  the  listener 
into  its  watery  bosom,  and  sport  with  him  down  into 
the  valley,  were  not  his  body  in  the  way.  It  can  have 
the  sound  of  anger,  then  it  breaks  into  laughter ;  but  its 
chief  note  is  the  low  sweet  note  of  love.  It  is  no  won- 
der that  so  many  of  the  ancient  worthies  were  enamored 
of  nymphs ;  these  assume  a  positive  shape  to  the  imagi- 
nation with  their  caressing  tones  ;  the  unconscious  world 
bursts  into  expression,  and  the  old  Mythology  becomes  a 
vital  thing  once  more.  Thus  one  loiters  the  time  away 
in  golden  idleness ;  he  is  entranced  by  the  new  world, 


486  A   WALK  IN  HKLLAS. 

and  would  fain  drop  away  into  a  dream  of  the  brook ;  it 
is  a  spell  which  changes  the  man  into  a  stream,  which 
transformation  has  been  hinted  in  many  an  ancient 
fable. 

Such  is  the  natural  word,  aspiring,  struggling  to  fill 
itself  with  a  soul  and  thus  attain  unto  speech :  but  it  can- 
not cross  the  unseen  barrier,  it  always  falls  back  into  the 
brook  after  leaping  for  a  moment  above  the  surface.  The 
heroic  struggle  of  Nature  to  rise  into  a  higher  being  we 
may  consider  it ;  some  aid  it  seems  to  pray  for ;  is  there 
no  one  who  can  catch  that  helpless  floundering  word,  hold 
it,  and  make  it  eternal?  Yes,  there  is:  his  name  is  the 
Poet ;  he  seizes  the  dim  suggestions  of  Nature  and  flings 
them  out  of  the  brook,  he  wins  them  from  the  trees,  he 
captures  them  from  the  mountain  ;  a  strange  magical  sort 
of  man  dealing  with  invisible  spirits  whom  he  makes  visi- 
ble. His  words  are  still  the  words  of  the  brook,  the  tree, 
or  the  mountain  ;  they  have  the  sound  of  the  waters,  the 
fragrance  of  the  flowers,  the  sport  of  the  leaflets ;  but  they 
are  on  his  lips  transfigured,  and  receive  a  soul  which 
holds  them  up  from  falling,  and  which  is  the  fulfillment 
of  their  former  aspiration.  The  word  of  Nature  which 
the  Poet  hears  and  utters  can  never  drop  back  into  the 
uudistinguishable  elements,  but  it  becomes  winged  and 
soars  into  ethereal  spaces,  imaging  the  things  of  Heaven. 

But  it  is  time  for  the  wayfarer  to  depart ;  too  long  al- 
ready has  he  dallied  with  the  nymphs,  listening  to  their 
revelations.  He  turns  away  with  many  delightful  calls  in 
his  hearing,  for  the  whole  stream  has  now  become  vocal, 
and  has  admitted  him  into  its  inner  sanctuary.  A  tender 
farewell  has  to  be  given  ;  with  a  final  draught  and  gentle 
plash  of  the  hand  he  takes  his  leave  of  the  musical  com- 
pany, though  the  receding  voices  sound  long  in  his  ear 
and  try  to  persuade  him  back. 

He  returns  to  the  small  peak-girt  plain  where  the  huts 
stand  empty  with  one  door  slightly  open ;  but  now  the 
door  is  shut,  shut  tight,  there  cannot  be  a  doubt  of  it. 
No  living  object  is  visible,  though  the  former  influences 
are  felt;  guess  me  this  riddle?  Indeed  the  door  is  fast; 
hands  have  done  it  —  what  hands  ?  There  is  some  power 


THE  DELPHIC  FAUN.  487 

at  work  in  this  deserted  spot ;  we  felt  it  when  we  were 
here  before;  at  present  it  is  even  more  perceptible.  Let 
us  hurry  forward ;  Pan  touches  again,  sending  stronger 
shudders  than  the  previous  ones ;  we  shall  not  tarry  in 
his  domain  for  fear  of  some  further  punishment.  It  was  he 
who  closed  the  door  to  hide  his  revels  from  mortal  eye  ; 
the  shaggy  deity  has  refused  to  reveal  himself,  being  so 
unlike  the  fair  nymph  of  the  spring;  the  panic  is  the  sole 
reminder  of  his  presence.  But  he  belongs  to  that  uncon- 
scious world  also,  into  which  the  Mythus  strikes  its  roots 
and  draws  its  nourishment ;  we  must  form,  too,  his 
image,  as  he  vanishes  amid  the  trees. 

A  new  path  shows  itself  into  which  one  enters  without 
further  thought.  The  woods  still  appear  overlaid  with 
patches  of  sunshine,  and  the  unseen  company  is  never 
absent  —  in  fact,  I  am  now  getting  used  to  their  presence, 
and  they  no  longer  flee  from  me  as  they  did  at  first.  I 
feel  myself  becoming  a  denizen  of  their  world.  My 
glance  does  not  seem  to  drive  them  out  of  the  sunny 
spots  as  it  once  did ;  the  shudder,  too,  has  quite  left  me. 
Moreover,  the  feet  seem  lighter,  the  side  of  the  mountain 
is  no  longer  so  hard  to  climb ;  I  verily  believe  that  I 
am  partaking  of  their  nature.  It  is  certain  that  a  trans- 
formation has  taken  place  since  morning,  a  new  relation- 
ship has  been  established  with  a  strange  order  of  friends. 
Imagine  me  walking  along  through  the  forest  alone,  yet 
in  cheertul  companionship,  scaling  the  high  rock  with 
ease,  unburdened  by  a  single  thought,  dwelling  wholly  in 
a  free  unconscious  world  with  its  own  inhabitants. 

A  new  side  in  human  nature  wakes,  unsuspected  before 
or  regarded  as  a  dream  or  delusion  ;  stranger  still,  a  new 
side  in  external  nature  cornes  to  view,  in  perfect  corre- 
spondence with  this  human  phase.  The  chasm  between 
man  and  the  world  outside  of  him  seems  filled  ;  a  new 
bond  has  arisen,  indeed  a  new  being  who  joins  the  two 
into  a  harmonious  whole.  The  senses  are  open  to  the 
keenest  delight  and  possess  the  sharpest  intensity ; 
thought,  however,  sinks  into  their  ocean  and  disappears ; 
existence  seems  but  a  dream.  Such  you  will  become,  if 
you  wander  through  the  Greek  woods  over  Parnassus  on 


488  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

a  sunny  day ;  you  sink  away  into  a  new  kinship,  which, 
suspected  and  shunned  at  first,  changes  to  a  secret  con- 
fiding intimacy. 

But  this  is  not  all.  We  have  found  a  new  life,  and 
it  is  to  be  embodied  into  a  form ;  if  we  possess  the 
Greek  instinct,  we  shall  discover  the  image  for  our  con- 
ception ;  indeed,  the  image  is  its  true,  expression.  This 
new  life  must  find  utterance  now,  must  have  found  utter- 
ance long  ago ;  of  its  own  accord  the  shape  rises  up  and 
walks  into  being  at  my  side.  It  is  no  effort  of  mine,  I 
do  not  make  it,  it  appears  when  I  have  the  ability  to  see 
it.  Not  at  the  time  did  I  identify  it,  or  try  to  identify  it ; 
I  could  not  then  reflect  —  it  was  the  pain  of  Hell  to 
think ;  but  now  I  can  look  back  at  the  appearance,  and 
tell  you  my  judgment  concerning  it:  it  was  the  Faun. 

But  wake  up  and  behold  this  real  thing :  a  large  hole 
in  the  mountain  not  far  from  the  top.  Hither,  our  path 
has  led  us  deviously  but  with  certainty  all  day ;  it  is  the 
famous  Korykian  cave.  The  disturbed  eagles  fly  angrily 
a  few  feet  above  my  head  ;  another  bird,  unknown  to  me, 
mingles  with  them,  gifted  with  a  scolding  voice,  of  which 
I  now  get  the  full  benefit.  I  reach  for  my  tapers,  which 
I  brought  along,  suspecting  that  I  might  have  to  conduct 
you  through  dark  places.  In  spite  of  the  sunshine,  the 
journey  has  been  somewhat  nebulous  at  times,  but  now 
we  shall  have  to  take  our  little  lights  and  grope  about  in 
the  secrets  of  the  cavern. 

As  I  turn  around  a  short  angle,  I  come  suddenly  upon 
a  person  who  is  lying  on  a  rock,  propped  up  with  his 
elbows  and  finding  some  hidden  entertainment  in  the 
objects  of  Nature  inclosing  him  around.  A  glance  re- 
veals that  it  is  Dimitri,  with  whom  I  had  a  very  slight 
acquaintance  at  Delphi ;  to-day  he  is  taking  a  short  stroll 
over  Parnassus  all  alone,  for  the  mere  delight  of  the  soli- 
tude. He  pretends  to  have  a  little  errand,  he  is  going  to 
catch  some  rare  beetles  for  a  professor  of  entomology  at 
Athens ;  he  knows  the  very  spot,  and  the  only  spot  where 
they  are  to  be  found.  He  has  a  crook  in  his  hand  which 
he  employs  like  a  lengthened  arm  ;  .his  whole  satisfaction 
is  to  lie  on  grassy  banks  along  the  brooks,  to  roam  the 


THE  DELPHIC  FAUN.  489 

forests,  or  to  dream  the  hours  away  reclining  on  a  stone* 
in  the  sun.  He  avoids  the  vineyard  where  there  is  work 
in  trimming  the  vines  ;  he  shuns  the  Olives  where  he  has 
to  stoop  so  often  in  picking  up  the  fruit ;  but  he  runs  off 
from  Delphi  and  wanders  alone  here  on  Parnassus,  where 
he  seems  to  find  his  true  kindred. 

Dimitri  is  indeed  a  strange  character.  At  Delphi  he  is 
in  ill  repute  on  account  of  laziness ;  but  judging  by  his 
agility  at  times,  by  his  readiness  to  clamber  up  the 
steepest  rock  for  a  trifle,  by  the  unnecessary  steps  or 
rather  skips  that  he  takes  in  a  day,  I  cannot  call  him 
lazy,  though  it  is  manifest  that  he  will  not  work  in  the 
harness  of  the  Delphic  world.  Look  at  bis  clothes  ;  they 
are  the  garments  of  civilization,  but  they  do  not  sit  well 
on  him,  his  body  seems  in  a  sort  of  protest  against 
them ;  at  every  movement  it  cries  out  to  be  left  alone 
or  to  be  girt  with  a  simple  goat's  fell.  His  cap  falls 
over  his  eyes  and  blinds  him,  till  he  takes  it  off  and  goes 
bareheaded;  then  he  can  see,  and  I  believe  smell,  with 
the  keenness  of  a  wild  deer.  He  carries  no  mark  of 
age  in  his  looks ;  his  face  never  loses  its  dreamy  smile 
when  he  is  among  the  mountains ;  he  can  laugh  the 
moments  away  lying  on  his  sunlit  rock  and  never  think  of 
the  lapse  of  Time.  The  Faun  has  now  become  a  realily 
in  him ;  I  do  not  deny  his  close  relationship  to  this  local- 
ity, to  this  day,  and  to  myself  at  this  moment ;  but  chiefly, 
my  unseen  companion  follows  me  no  longer,  he  now  leaves 
me  to  the  seen  presence  of  Dimitri. 

He  offers  to  conduct  me  through  the  Korykian  Cave, 
which  with  such  a  guide  must  reveal  all  its  secrets.  This 
cave  was  well  known  in  antiquity,  and  was  celebrated  by 
poets  as  the  ho'me  of  their  poetical  beings  ;  it  was  visited 
by  our  traveler  Pausanias,  who  has  compared  it  with 
other  famous  caves  that  he  knew  of,  and  has  pronounced 
this  the  most  wonderful  of  all.  He  tells  us,  too,  that  it 
was  sacred  to  Pan  and  the  Nymphs  ;  an  inscription  found 
upon  the  spot  in  recent  times  commemorates  the  same 
fact.  Thus  we  have  arrived  at  the  very  house  of  those 
strange  existences  which  have  been  flitting  through  the 
forest  and  over  the  mountain  during  the  entire  day. 


490  A    WALK  IN"  HELLAS. 

We  enter  the  door  and  walk  down  into  the  first  cham- 
ber, a  large  presence-chamber.  The  ceiling  is  arched 
above,  and  is  said  to  be  forty  feet  high  in  its  highest  part ; 
it  has  an  imperial  magnificence ;  one  looks  up  at  the  clus- 
ters, hanging  there  as  if  it  might  be  a  fairy  palace.  On 
the  ground  lie  small  circles  of  stones  heaped  up  and 
blackened  with  fire ;  they  date  from  the  time  of  the  Rev- 
olution, when  this  cave  formed  a  retreat  for  the  neighbor- 
ing villagers  from  the  Turk,  as  it  did  for  the  ancient 
Delphians  in  the  time  of  the  Gallic  invasion.  Still  the 
walls  are  begrimed  with  the  smoke  of  those  fires,  and  of 
the  torches  of  visitors.  One  marches  into  the  unknown 
darkness  carefully;  again  there  is  felt  a  touch  of  the 
panic  as  one  enters  deeper  into  the  obscure  cavern.  But 
behold  Dimitri ;  he  needs  none  of  my  tapers  ;  he  seems  at 
home,  at  one  moment  he  is  at  my  side,  at  another  he 
springs  away  into  some  unseen  corner  as  if  to  give  a 
caress  to  a  nymph,  or  to  greet  an  old  acquaintance. 

As  soon  as  the  eyes  get  used  to  their  new  duty,  a 
striking  series  of  objects  emerge  from  the  darkness  on 
every  side :  the  statuary  of  Nature  formed  of  stalag- 
mites. There  are  several  groups  along  the  wall  arranged 
as  if  in  a  gallery;  then  there  is  a  large  group  that 
stands  entirely  free,  to  the  rear  of  the  chamber.  The 
most  remarkable  is  the  Mother  and  children,  suggesting 
Medea  clasping  her  infants.  But  the  tendency  is  to 
masks,  to  faces  of  wild  caricature,  which  pass  gradually 
into  the  rock.  Mocking  satyrs  maybe  distinguished,  and 
one  of  them  the  visitor  will  be  inclined  to  call  Pan,  who 
now  appears  fashioned  by  Nature  herself  and  dwelling  in 
his  own  mountain  temple.  Such  is  the  primitive  gallery 
of  sculpture,  suggesting  all  which  Art  is  hereafter  to  re- 
veal of  this  unseen  world. 

Nor  must  we  forget  that  in  antiquity  there  were,  be- 
sides these  natural  shapes,  the  statues  of  Pan  and  the 
Nymphs  set  up  in  this  cave,  genuine  works  of  the  Art- 
ist. Thus  we  attain  the  completed  Greek  conception, 
and  we  behold  the  direct  transformation  of  Nature  into 
Art,  seeking  to  express  the  invisible  powers  of  this  re- 
gion. Pan  still  runs  over  these  summits  and  through 


THE  DELPHIC  FAUN.  491 

these  glens  —  he,  that  magnetic  link  connecting  man  with 
the  secret  energies  of  Nature.  One  feels  him  and  his 
influence  in  the  solitudes,  and  forms  his  image  —  such  is 
the  first  stage ;  then  he  bursts  into  visibility  in  these 
rude  shapes  of  rock,  which,  however,  fall  back  into  im- 
potent formlessness,  till  the  hand  of  the  Artist  reaches 
out  and  helps  them  rise  into  complete  being  in  the  statue, 
in  which  the  suggestion  of  Nature  is  realized  and  trans- 
cended. This,  we  recollect,  is  quite  what  the  Poet  did 
for  the  natural  words  of  the  brook. 

But  accident  now  shows  the  culmination  of  the  series 
in  a  living  being.  There  he  stands  alongside  one  of 
those  rude  figures  of  stone,  gazing  at  it  with  a  far-off 
wonderment — my  companion  Dimitri,  the  living  Faun, 
beside  the  rocky  Faun.  The  resemblance  is  astonishing, 
almost  appalling ;  you  ask,  which  indeed  could  have  been 
the  model?  The  broad  nose,  the  hairy  forehead,  the  look 
of  jolly  animality  are  common  to  both ;  even  the  drapery 
is  similar:  as  Dimitri' s  body  seems  to  disappear  in  Ms 
formless  garments,  so  the  outlines  of  the  figure  vanish  in 
the  formless  rock  of  the  cavern ;  both,  too,  appear  equally 
besmirched  by  the  smoke  and  dust  of  time.  He  looked 
at  the  stony  image  with  a  strange  fascination,  he  had 
evidently  selected  it  of  all  others  in  the  cave  from  some 
secret  affinity.  I  glanced  at  each  imaging  the  other,  and 
said:  "Why,  Dimitri,  that  is  you."  He  gave  a  wild 
snort  of  angry  terror,  and  darted  with  his  taper  into  the 
next  chamber,  whither  I  groped  dubiously  after  him. 

Between  the  two  chambers  is  a  kind  of  curtain,  partly 
suspended  from  the  ceiling  —  a  wonderful  piece  of  tap- 
estry which  hints  of  Nature  as  the  primitive  weaver. 
On  all  fours  'one  has  to  climb  now,  through  moist  dark 
passages ;  in  the  rock,  up  which  one  crawls,  is  a  little 
spring  which  freshens  lips  and  temples.  A  little  eye  of  a 
fountain  beaming  in  the  dim  light  of  the  taper  —  it  seems 
to  have  life,  even  love  in  its  glance.  This  room  is  gor- 
geously furnished,  with  fine  incrustations  over  head,  where 
hangs  many  a  sparkling  drop  of  translucent  stone.  A 
large  conical  column  in  the  center  is  inscribed  with  the 
names  of  visitors  —  all  nationalities,  all  languages,  all 


492  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

periods  seem  to  be  represented  —  a  grand  column  of  fame, 
upon  which,  after  some  trial,  I  totally  failed  to  grave  my 
name. 

My  guide,  the  living  Faun,  now  conducts  me  to  the 
small  chambers  in  the  rear  —  bedrooms  of  the  Nymphs 
one  may  call  them  without  fear  of  being  successfully 
confuted.  These  apartments  are  not  easy  of  access ;  it 
would  seem  that  their  fair  occupants  did  not  wish  to  have 
their  privacy  disturbed  in  this  last  refuge.  To  enter  the 
iirst  room,  Dimitri  flings  herself  down  on  the  floor  and 
crawls  through  a  narrow  aperture,  taper  in  hand;  he 
seems  to  shrink  in  the  act,  like  a  witch  going  through  a 
key-hole.  I  follow  his  example,  but  the  stone  above  fits 
so  close  into  the  small  of  my  back  that  I  am  caught,  and 
can  neither  get  in  nor  out.  Dimitri  laughed ;  Pan,  the 
satyrs,  and  all  the  dwellers  of  the  cave,  seemed  to  be 
laughing  in  a  universal  echo  with  him  at  the  poor  mortal 
caught  in  trying  to  enter  the  Nymphs'  bed-chamber. 
But  there  is  Faun  enough  in  me  to  shrink  also  and  wriggle 
through  ;  this  day's  experience  has  not  been  for  nought. 
It  is  a  friendly  room,  somewhat  dark,  lit  for  the  obscure 
mysteries  of  its  inhabitants.  More  interesting  than  ever 
Dimitri  is  getting  to  be ;  he  now  seems  at  home  as  he 
squats  down  in  one  corner ;  he  is  in  bond  with  the  hidden 
influences  of  the  place,  and  he  has  an  air  of  familiarity, 
begotten  not  of  knowledge  but  of  fellow-feeling,  indeed  of 
kinship.  After  showing  the  secrets  of  the  spot,  more  by 
his  actions  than  by  his  words,  he  suddenly  sprawls  and 
glides  through  the  aperture,  as  if  it  were  the  only  door  he 
ever  knew.  "  You  lizard,"  I  cried,  and  crawled  after 
him.  But  ah,  that  close-fitting  stone !  It  seized  me  again 
with  a  tight  span  around  the  waist,  so  that  all  the  india- 
rubber  in  me  was  required  in  order  to  squeeze  through. 
"  Dimitri,  no  more  holes  of  that  sort,  I  tell  thee  ;  I  have 
seen  enough  of  the  Nymphs  to-day,  at  any  rate." 

But  he  insists  with  unusual  urgency  upon  conducting 
•me.  to  one  chamber  more,  which  lies  high,  in  a  sort  of 
upper  story ;  he  scrambles  up  and  pulls  me  after  him  over 
the  slimy  rock.  More  delighted  than  ever  he  looks  ;  he 
turns  to  me  aud  says:  "This  would  be  a  fine  room  to 


THE  DELPHIC  FAUN.  493 

which  to  lead  home  a  bride."  Nymplie,  in  modern  Greek, 
means  a  bride,  and  the  word  at  once  connects  him  with 
the  invisible  occupant  of  the  chamber,  the  Nymph.  He 
throws  himself  down  and  rests  a  moment,  looking  up  at 
the  stalactites  with  a  rapt  eye  which  sees  spirits.  I  look, 
too,  at  the  ceiling ;  a  little  mask  laughs  out  of  the  stone 
above,  then  slides  into  indistinguishable  rock  with  the  rest 
of  its  body.  The  moment  I  see  it,  it  turns  to  crystal,  but 
I  am  quite  sure  that  Dimitri  saw  it  alive,  and  that  it 
recognized  Mm  with  that  little  titter  still  visible  in  the 
stone.  Again  glance  at  the  preity  face  above ;  it  is 
Dimitri's  bride.  I  nudge  him,  waking  him  up  from  his 
revery ;  unwillingly  he  turns  away,  arid,  giving  a  kind  of 
salute,  he  slips  down  the  side  of  the  cavern. 

It  is  time  to  pass  out ;  we  go  by  the  conical  column 
with  its  roll  of  names ;  we  come  to  the  little  spring, 
gathered  drop  by  drop  till  it  amount  to  a  shellful,  by 
some  busy  unseen  benefactress ;  it  offers  now  its  last 
draught.  We  reach  the  royal  antechamber  again,  with 
its  statuary  and  spangled  ceiling.  But  there  is  a  change  ; 
I  felt  the  unpleasant  shudder  when  I  came  into  the  dark 
place ;  now  the  masks  are  familiar,  even  merry,  they 
have  become  reconciled  to  the  presence  of  the  stranger, 
and  salute  him.  Darkness  also  seems  to  have  changed 
to  light ;  the  stealthy  tread  toward  dim  uncertainty  has 
been  transformed  into  the  sure,  easy  walk  of  familiarity. 
I  now  feel  at  home  in  the  cave,  and  in  accord  with  its 
inmates ;  several  times  I  pace  through  the  accessible 
chambers,  and  give  myself  freely  to  their  suggestions. 
Dimitri,  too,  has  changed  toward  me  ;  at  first  he  was  shy, 
and  did  not  let  himself  out,  but  now  he  treats  me  with 
strong  affection,  almost  with  fawning  at  times. 

Here  one  beholds  the  influences  which  are  at  work  in 
these  mountains,  formed  into  shapes,  and  placed  in  a 
temple  by  Nature  herself.  What  lay  previously  in  the 
vague  unconscious  realm,  now  seems  to  find  a  symbol, 
a  sensuous  representation  and  an  abode.  After  such  a 
long  Wandering  walk  with  its  many  new  -experiences  in 
the  forest  and  upon  the  mountain,  one  feels  that  he  has 
found  in  this  cave  an  utterance,  dark  and  uncertain,  still 


494  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

an  utterance,  which  by  main  force  springs  into  fantastic 
shapes  in  the  attempt  to  reveal  itself.  Nature's  fancy 
may  be  seen  in  its  thousandfold  workings,  which  call  up 
a  corresponding  activity  in  man ;  still  it  is  but  Fancy, 
the  Fancy  of  Nature  sporting  capriciously  with  its  own 
shapes. 

However  this  may  be,  the  Korykian  cavern  has  one 
prominent  ground  of  interest :  it  is  the  best  place  to  ob- 
serve how  Greek  Art  is  hinted  even  in  its  minutest 
shadings  by  Nature.  These  are  still  the  works  of  Na- 
ture, but  it  is  Nature  struggling  to  be  Art,  needing  just 
a  touch  of  the  hand  of  man  to  preserve  the  persistency 
of  her  forms  and  carry  them  out  to  completeness.  Alone, 
she  is  unable  to  bear  forward  her  shapes  to  a  full  repre- 
sentation of  spirit ;  they  swoon  back  into  rock,  half 
made,  with  perhaps  an  arm  only,  or  a  face  looking  out 
from  the  stony  wall.  The  suggestion  is  certainly  given 
by  Nature,  but  she  is  impotent  to  attain  to  the  spiritual ; 
we  wonder  that  she  comes  so  near  to  it,  but  still  falls 
short ;  with  an  eager  shining  face  she  looks  and  points 
to  her  supreme  end,  but  cannot  reach  it. 

Here  is  Architecture  in  all  its  germs ;  behold  its 
decorated  inclosure,  its  richly  hung  ceilings  with  hint 
of  column  and  structural  proportion,  as  well  as  of  orna- 
mentation. The  cave  has  a  striking  resemblance  to  the 
Greek  house ;  it  suggests  the  very  plan  upon  which  the 
buildings  of  Pompeii  are  erected.  Indeed  Pompeii  with 
its  Hellenized  Architecture  is  seldom  absent  from  the 
mind  as  one  passes  through  the  various  parts  of  the  cavern. 
This  is  the  typical  form  of  the  Greek  house  ;  such  is  the 
thought  which  one  carries  away.  In  a  still  higher  degree 
have  we  the  hint  of  Sculpture ;  the  single  figure,  the 
group,  the  gallery,  have  already  been  noticed.  These 
were  tne  first  models,  let  the  Artist  now  appear,  and  set 
the  encumbered  form  free  from  the  rock. 

And  the  Artist  does  appear,  and  set  the  form  free ;  the 
statues  of  Pan  and  the  Nymphs  stood  anciently  along- 
side of  the  half-revealed  shapes  in  the  rock.  The  old 
worshiper  came  here  and  saw  the  transition  with  his  own 
eyes  ;  he  beheld  the  complete  figure  of  the  sculptor  rise  out 


THE  DELPHIC  FAUN.  495 

of  the  stony  swaddling-clothes  of  Nature,  and  become  the 
bearer  of  a  spiritual  purpose.  Therein,  he  saw,  too,  his 
own  supreme  end ;  it  was  to  make  this  material  existence 
of  his  an  image  of  the  soul ;  he  too,  was  to  undergo  trans- 
formation like  the  stone  before  him.  This,  then,  was  a 
temple  of  worship  wherein  man  could  behold  some  phase 
of  his  transfiguration;  even  Pan,  goat-footed  though  he 
be,  has  a  true  utterance ;  his  sculptured  form  is  a  spirit- 
ual presence,  revealing  that  spirit  which  is  felt  everywhere 
throughout  the  forest  and  mountain. 

Numerous  modern  legends  are  connected  with  the  cave. 
The  Arachobite  mother  thinks  that  it  is  the  home  of  the 
Nereids  who  kill  and  carry  off  her  infants.  The  puzzling 
etymology  of  its  name  has  given  rise  to  the  following 
legend  taken  from  the  mouths  of  the  people.  A  number 
of  maidens  resolved  to  retire  from  the  world  and  devote 
themselves  wholly  to  the  service  of  the  Virgin.  They 
took  this  cave  for  their  cloister,  whence  it  is  called  Kory- 
T\ion  antron,  that  is,  maids  without  men,  korai  dicha 
andron.  It  also  bears  the  name  of  Sarantavli,  the  Forty 
Halls  or  rooms,  from  the  belief  that  forty  monks  once 
took  up  their  abode  in  the  cave,  and  closed  the  rooms  be- 
hind them,  where  they  have  remained  ever  since,  and  are 
still  expected  by  the  peasantry  to  come  and  free  the 
orthodox  church  from  the  hateful  sway  of  the  Moham- 
medan. In  the  midst  of  the  mountain  they  remain  at 
prayer,  monks  in  their  deep  monastery  of  stone.  Hence, 
to-day,  there  are  so  few  chambers,  some  half  dozen  only, 
the  rest  being  closed  till  the  great  day  of  restoration. 
Thus  the  cave  still  is  a  religious  abode,  but  of  a  very  dif- 
ferent kind  from  the  ancient  one.  A  monastic  character 
is  now  given  to  it  by  legend,  whereas  anciently  it  was  full 
of  the  fresh  breath  of  Nature,  of  the  joyous  worship  of 
Pan  and  the  Nymphs.  In  such  manner  the  ancient  and 
modern  worlds  have  left  their  image  even  upon  the  Kory- 
kian  Cave  ;  but  Dimitri  is  the  true  central  figure  of  it  to- 
day, being  the  living  presence  of  the  Old  in  the  New. 

In  going  out  of  the  cave,  we  pass  by  that  strange 
statue  of  the  Faun ;  Dimitri  will  not  now  look  at  it.  I 
called  his  attention  to  it ;  still  again  he  turned  away  with 


496  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

a  shudder.  But  previously  he  preferred  that  shape  to 
any  other  in  the  cavern,  it  had  a  deep  fascination  for  him, 
which  is  now  changed  to  abhorrence.  He  has  seen  his 
own  image,  he  has  cast  a  glance  into  his  own  spiritual 
being,  he  has  become  self-conscious  to  a  degree.  It  is 
but  a  glimmer  of  the  world  within,  still  it  is  torture,  it  is 
horror.  Never  before  has  he  had  a  reflection,  one  may 
think ;  never  has  he  looked  upon  himself  and  asked  the 
question:  "  What,  then,  am  I?  "  Like  an  animal,  which 
turns  away  from  its  own  image  in  a  mirror,  or  snarls  or 
snaps  at  it  when  seen  in  the  clear  brook,  he  is  terrified  as 
well  as  angry  at  his  own  appearance.  u  Dimitri,  be  not 
afraid,"  I  cried ;  "  dare  to  face  thine  own  ghost  and  be- 
come a  man  ;  that  image  is  thyself,  look  upon  it,  and  thou 
art  already  above  it."  I  grasped  his  arm,  and  led  him  to 
the  figure,  feeling  him  tremble ;  I  was  now  his  guide,  he 
was  no  longer  mine.  He  looked  at  it  with  unsteady, 
blinking  eye,  as  if  trying  to  gaze  into  some  intense  light 
which  vision  could  not  endure.  We  turned  away,  he 
skipped  no  more,  his  joy  was  lost,  he  had  come  to  a  dim 
knowledge  of  himself ;  he  was  transformed,  the  Faun  be- 
gan to  disappear. 

We  pass  slowly  down  the  hill-side  over  the  tableland 
toward  Delphi.  Dimitri  has  certainly  lost  a  portion  of 
his  buoyancy.  Sometimes  the  Faun  in  him  returns,  he 
frisks  over  the  fields,  bounding  out  of  the  path,  and  re- 
clining a  moment  against  a  stone.  Then  he  would  walk 
slowly  in  the  beaten  way,  sunk  in  thought,  considering 
apparently  that  strange  image  of  himself.  But  he  would 
wake  out  of  reflection  at  another  moment,  would  run  and 
fetch  a  curious  pebble,  flower  or  insect,  and  watch  with 
a  puzzled  gaze  how  they  affected  the  stranger.  We  reach 
the  summit  over  Delphi  and  behold  the  level  rays  of  the 
setting  sun  shot  straight  against  Phloumbouki ;  into  that 
round  ball  of  fire  the  Faun  looks  with  delight  and  wonder, 
his  face  shows  a  kind  of  worship ;  the  luminary  sinks  in  a 
blaze,  Dimitri  turns  to  Delphi  with  a  saddened  aspect,  as  if 
it  was  the  last  time  that  he,  the  Faun,  was  to  look  at  the 
setting  sun  ;  to-morrow  he  must  behold  it  with  other  eyes. 
Without  a  word  he  slid  off  into  a  by-path  of  the  village ; 


THE  DELPHIC  NOTE  BOOK.        497 

it  was  probably  his  unhappiest  day,  and  he  owed  it  tome, 
who  had  brought  him  to  look  upon  himself. 

Imagine  now  with  me  the  future  career  of  Dimitri. 
There  has  been  a  conversion  in  him  ;  he  has  been  revealed 
unto  himself,  and  thus  rises  out  of  his  former  condition. 
I  predict  that  he  will  lose  his  friskiness,  that  he  will  be- 
gin to  go  to  the  Olives  and  vineyard,  that  he  will  adjust 
anew  his  drapery,  that  he  will  no  longer  spring  alone  over 
the  mountains,  but  weighted  with  his  cares  and  thoughts, 
he  will  pass  heavy-paced  to  his  day's  labor.  He  begins 
to  realize  the  Delphic  oracle:  Know  Thyself;  he  starts 
to-morrow  with  the  burden  of  a  new  world  upon  his 
shoulders.  To  the  unconscious  race  of  beings  he  belongs 
no  more  ;  he  renounces  the  company  of  Pan  and  Nymphs  — 
he  is  now  Delphic.  But  how  great  the  difference  between 
me  and  thee,  O  Dimitri !  I  seek  to  fall  back  into  that 
instinctive  soul  of  pure  Nature,  which  is  my  Paradise, 
whilst  thou  must  strive  to  get  out  of  it,  since  it  is  thy 
Hades.  I  would  fain  live  there  days  of  thoughtless  exist- 
ence, drinking  of  the  first  fountains  whose  melodious 
waters  heal  the  worn  and  dusty  heart;  but  thou  must 
rise  from  faunhood  to  manhood,  taking  upon  thee  the 
burden  of  thine  own  image,  a  seeming  shadow  indeed, 
but  heaviest  of  sublunary  things. 


THE  RELIGION  OF  BEAUTY. 

That  was  indeed  a  wonderful  epoch  in  Universal  His- 
tory when  Religion  and  Beauty,  when  the  spirit  and  the 
senses  were  united  in  a  supreme  world-embracing  har- 
mony. A  most  important  epoch,  too,  it  was  ;  life  became 
musical,  its  extremes  touched  and  sent  forth  the  thrill  of 
sweetest  notes,  existence  seemed  a  fountain  of.  melody, 
welling  up  into  song.  The  two  great  struggling  principles 
of  the  human  soul  are  the  sensuous  and  the  spiritual ;  war, 
eternal  war,  has  been  declared  between  them,  till  this 
state  of  man  is  an  everlasting  field  of  battle,  with  the 

32 


498  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

fight  renewed  hour  by  hour,  and  victory  daily  lost 
and  won.  Once,  however,  there  was  peace,  universal 
peace  between  the  two  conflicting  elements  ;  a  peace  ut- 
tering itself  in  the  noblest  strains  of  song,  in  a  joyous 
activity,  in  a  serene  worship.  It  is  hardly  more  than  a 
point  in  the  sweep  of  Time,  but  that  point  gave  expres- 
sion to  the  harmony  of  the  Universe  ;  it  was  a  music  of 
the  spheres  in  melodious  conjunction ;  Religion  was  the 
worship  of  Beauty,  and  Beauty  was  the  inspiration  of 
Religion. 

Whatever  be  the  kind  of  religion,  there  are  in  it  two 
factors  —  the  worshiper  and  the  worshiped ;  the  Man 
and  the  God.  In  some  separation  they  at  first  are,  vast 
and  deep ;  they  stand  off  against  each  other,  indiffer- 
ent and  often  hostile.  To  bring  the  two  sides  together 
and  make  them  harmonious,  is  the  supreme  act  of  wor- 
ship, .indeed  of  life  ;  accursed  is  the  man  who  has  fallen 
out  with  his  Gods.  Such  alienation  is  the  unhappiest  of 
all  mortal  states,  the  darkest  and  deepest  chasm  of  the 
human  heart.  The  harmonious  relation  between  the 
Human  and  Divine  is  the  eternal  verity  of  religion, 
the  final  test  of  its  value  for  man ;  and  we  always  ask, 
what  discords  of  soul  does  this  religion  overcome,  what 
melody  does  it  reveal  and  utter  in  its  worship,  what  rec- 
onciliation does  it  give  between  man  and  his  God. 

We  would  not  say  that  there  are  no  dissonant  notes  in 
the  Greek  world ;  there  are  such  and  in  abundance. 
But  in  her  worthy  period,  they  seem  to  vanish  into  mel- 
ody ;  they  pass  over  into  sweet  sounds  which  have  been 
perpetuated  in  her  song.  Discords  there  are,  but  they 
do  not  remain  ;  indeed  deepest  music  springs  from  dis- 
cord overcome ;  the  deeper  the  dissonance,  the  deeper 
the  resultant  harmony.  The  faculty  of  changing  dis- 
ruption of  soul  into  equable  well-attuned  health,  is  pecu- 
liarly Greek;  dead  and  meaningless  is  music  without 
tension,  simplest  reed  pipe  is  more  ;  song  as  well  as  wor- 
ship must  show  victory  over  struggle  —  the  reconciliation 
after  the  conflict. 

Accordingly  we  shall  ask  in  the  main  two  questions : 
What  was  the  Greek  God  and  what  was  the  Greek  wor- 


THE  RELIGION  OF  BEAUTY.  499 

shiper?  To  comprehend  the  relation  between  these  two 
is  the  final  highest  act  of  the  Delphic  sojourn ;  in  it  all 
the  manifestations  of  Hellas  center,  from  it  they  ray 
out  in  every  direction.  We  must  transform  ourselves 
into  that  worshiper  and  adore  the  God  with  him,  seeing 
and  feeling  what  he  saw  and  felt ;  thus  we  shall  per- 
form for  ourselves  a  sacred  act  in  the  appreciation  of 
the  Divine  as  it  was  manifested  to  some  of  the  noblest 
souls  of  our  race.  For  us,  too,  the  Gods  existed,  if  we 
be  but  willing  to  make  them  our  own. 

The  first  fact  of  the  Divine  in  its  Greek  manifestation, 
is  that  the  One  breaks  up  into  the  Many,  religion  be- 
comes polytheistic.  This  is  the  most  important  consider- 
ation :  not  too  much  can  we  wrestle  with  its  meaning. 
Multiplicity  instead  of  unity  is  now  the  Divine  Word; 
that  is,  there  is  a  descent  of  deity  into  the  world,  an  em- 
bodiment in  manifold  sensuous  existence.  There  is  a 
dropping  down  into  the  multiplicity  of  Nature :  God  is  no 
longer  the  One,  Jehovah,  far  above  all  finitude,  dwelling 
in  heavenly  sublimity.  As  such  He  is  pure  ethereal 
spirit,  freed  from  the  earth  and  the  earthly ;  an  enormous 
unbridged  chasm  lies  between  Him  and  the  world.  But 
the  divine  soul  has  descended  and  taken  possession  of  the 
sensuous  world,  has  filled  it  in  all  its  variety ;  thus  the 
Divine  has  become  many  divinities,  which  hover  below 
among  men  in  some  fond  longing  for  their  society. 

So  the  old  Greek  felt  when  he  went  to  worship ;  this 
deity  has  come  down  to  me,  has  even  my  bodily  shape ; 
indeed  a  divine  form  may  dwell  in  the  brook,  in  the  grove 
or  mountain.  He  did  not  think  of  tin-owing  away  the 
sensuous  side  and  elevating  himself  to  the  purely  spiritual 
essence ;  that  sensuous  shape  lies  deep  in  the  nature  of 
the  God,  and  through  it  alone  can  man  come  into  relation 
with  divinity.  Thus  all  Nature  is  lit  with  the  Divine  Soul, 
all  the  works  of  man  are  instinct  with  it,  and  man  himself 
is  to  be  its  completest  revelation ;  the  world  of  Beauty 
springs  into  existence,  being  one  too  with  the  world  of 
Religion. 

The  ineffable  abstraction  of  deity  thus  becomes  individ- 
ual —  nay,  a  real,  tangible  shape.  Gods  are  individuali- 


500  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

ties,  each  with  its  own  limits  against  the  other ;  such  is 
Greek  spirit  everywhere^  imaged  in  the  Greek  territory, 
in  the  Greek  State,  in  the  man,  finally  in  Olympus  itself. 
All  proclaim,  the  divine  substance  is  now  individualized  in 
the  history  of  the  world ;  in  the  Gods  the  Greek  man  be- 
holds the  image  of  his  own  profoundest  being  and  aspira- 
tion. The  essence  of  himself  they  are,  of  what  he  is,  and 
must  be ;  he  must  realize  them  in  his  life,  and  for  them 
suffer  death.  Greek  polytheism  means  the  rise  of  the  in- 
dividual as  an  abiding  factor,  not  only  in  the  World's 
History,  but  in  the  complete  culture  of  every  human 
being. 

Such  was  the  stress  laid  by  Greece  upon  the  individ- 
ual —  she  loved  him,  fought  for  him,  worshipped  him, 
transfigured  him  at  last  to  a  God.  Thus  she  made  him 
eternal.  The  immortality  of  the  individual  is  the  gift  of 
Greece  to  the  race.  Every  statue  of  marble  is  an  at- 
tempt to  immortalize  some  phase  of  this  spirit  —  some 
deity,  some  hero,  or  perchance  some  man.  In  certain 
countries  of  the  East  were  previous  hints  of  this  doctrine, 
notably  in  Egypt ;  but  its  fruition  could  only  be  in  Greece, 
where  individuality  is  grasped  as  the  primal  germ  of  man's 
spiritual  nature,  as  divine  and  eternal.  The  body  will 
pass  away,  but  the  individual  spirit  is  an  everlasting 
thing ;  so  the  Greek  body,  the  Greek  State,  Greek  Olym- 
pus have  long  since  disappeared,  but  their  spirit  lives  to- 
day, being  immortal,  and  therein  a  true  prophecy  of 
itself. 

The  Greek  Gods,  therefore,  descend  into  the  world  and 
become  many ;  but  they  must  not  be  considered  as  mere 
natural  objects  or  forces  of  Nature.  They  still  remain 
spiritual,  are  beings  whose  essence  is  intelligence  in  some 
form.  They  have  a  physical  side,  but  even  this  physical 
side  is  to  be  filled  with  the  divine  soul,  is  in  some  sort  to 
be  a  revelation  of  the  deity.  Yet  the  natural  element 
must  be  present  in  the  God,  it  is  not  a  mere  external  sign 
or  symbol,  it  is  inseparable  from  the  divine  manifestation. 
The  two  worlds,  the  physical  and  spiritual,  touched  in  the 
deity  and  were  trans-formed  into  a  new  world  of  harmonious 
forms,  that  of  Art. 


TEE  RELIGION  OF  BEAUTY.  501 

It  is  true  that  the  Greeks  spoke  of  an  antecedent  time 
in  their  own  development  when  the  Gods  were  quite  sunk 
in  Nature,  hardly  more  than  physical  appearances.  But 
such  Gods  must  be  put  down,  the  old  Gods  of  Chaos ; 
hard  was  the  struggle,  this  primal  struggle  of  Greek  spirit. 
It  has  been  narrated  by  the  poet  Hesiod,  and  has  already 
been  considered  in  our  journey,  of  which  it  is  a  very  im- 
portant part ;  it  is  the  song  of  the  rise  of  the  spiritual  out 
of  the  natural.  Many  of  these  old  Gods  were  hurled 
down  to  gloomy  Tartarus  out  of  the  way ;  others  were 
still  tolerated  in  certain  dark  corners  of  life,  as  the  Furies  ; 
others  continued  to  flit  in  the  little  by-ways  of  Nature,  as 
the  Nymphs ;  but  the  true  Greek  world  belongs  to  the 
new  Gods,  the  Olympians. 

Still  the  Greek  religion  remains  polytheistic.  It  has 
purified  itself  of  gross  natural  forms,  it  has  elevated  itself 
to  spirit,  but  not  to  the  unity  of  the  Godhead.  That  can 
never  be,  the  beautiful  world  of  the  Gods  would  then 
perish,  there  would  be  no  Religion  of  Beauty.  The 
happy  mean  must  be  preserved  which  delights  in  the 
revelation  of  the  Divine  through  the  senses ;  the  war  is 
not  yet  opened  which  is  to  drive  out  of  the  world  the  last 
remaining  sensuous  element,  and  smite  to  pieces  the 
beautiful  Gods.  A  dim  mutter  of  it  may  be  already 
heard  in  the  background,  still  the  Greek  remained  joyous 
even  amid  his  forebodings. 

The  Gods  are,  therefore,  many ;  Hellas  would  not  be 
Hellas,  if  it  had  not  many  individuals  in  its  Pantheon. 
Still,  in  spite  of  them  there  is  one  Divine  essence  in  which 
all  the  Gods  participate  ;  does  that  deep-lurking  thought 
never  hover  before  the  consciousness  of  the  Greek  ?  When 
he  speaks  of  'the  Gods,  their  unity  comes  out  in  the  very 
instinct  of  his  speech  ;  he  must  consider  them  as  having 
one  thing  in  common,  namely  divinity,  else  they  could 
not  be  Gods.  Yes,  he  must  feel  that  unity  lying  back  of 
his  present  conception ;  the  One  thus  will  start  up  before 
him,  or  float  dimly  in  the  distance.  There  it  is,  an 
ineradicable  phase  of  human  spirit ;  spectral  it  may  appear 
to  him,  still  it  is  a  reality. 

Such  is,  indeed,  all  intelligence  in  its  innermost  move- 


502  A   WALK  Iff  HELLAS. 

ment,  though  thwarted  by  man's  perversity.  Let  him 
assert  the  Half,  it  will  insist  upon  being  the  Whole ;  let 
him,  as  at  present,  assert  the  Many,  in  the  very  assertion 
it  will  hint  the  One.  Strangest,  deepest  ei  all  human 
facts,  the  fundamental  one  of  all  mind ;  it  is  the  key-note 
of  history,  of  man's  development,  the  source  of  all  move- 
ment ;  this  it  is,  that  the  human  spirit  will  not  rest  in  a 
one-sided  phase  of  itself,  but  demands  its  own  complete- 
ness. Behold  the  process :  a  party  arises  which  lives  for 
a  period  by  asserting  a  part,  which  may  be  well  enough 
at  such  given  date ;  then  it  dies  of  a  lie  which  is  usually 
this,  under  many  forms :  our  part  or  party  is  the  Whole. 
Upon  such  an  assertion  it  acts,  ignoring  or  seeking  to 
destroy  the  other  part  or  party ;  this  destruction  of  the 
other  may  indeed  take  place,  still  the  Half  cannot  make 
itself  the  Whole ;  the  very  attempt  is  self-destruction. 

Of  old  this  movement  of  mind  was  known  to  the  Greek 
thinker ;  its  most  abstract  phase  is  touched  upon  in  his 
discussions.  Plato  called  it  the  Dialectic,  and  its  devel- 
opment of  some  given  theme  a  Dialogue.  Truest  of  all 
things  for  the  Greek  mind  was  Plato's  Dialectic  of  the  One 
and  the  Many,  now  often  deemed  a  mere  play  of  inge- 
nuity; but  in  that  play  an  entire  world  was  involved. 
Therein  the  philosopher  reveals  the  very  soul  of  his  na- 
tion in  its  purest  essence,  and  at  the  same  time  shows  a 
new  stage  of  its  development ;  he  casts  away  the  old 
revelation  of  Art  as  sullied  too  much  with  the  senses, 
and  exhibits  Greek  spirit  viewing  itself  in  its  own  stain- 
less mirror  of  Thought.  But  Plato  lies  beyond  the  pre- 
cincts of  Delphi. 

So  we  look  eagerly  for  the  traces  of  this  feeling  for  the 
other  Part,  for  the  One,  in  Greek  polytheism.  Soon  we 
come  upon  its  faint  suggestion  and  begin  to  recognize  it ; 
behold  it,  a  dim  far-off  specter,  ghostly  in  every  sense. 
Many  are  the  Gods,  but  there  appears  a  shadowy  hand 
behind  them  which  holds  them,  or  is  already  in  some 
deadly  struggle  with  them.  Read  Homer,  the  first  and 
greatest  Greek,  creator  of  the  Greek  world ;  even  above 
his  Zeus  a  dark  necessity  seems  at  times  to  hover,  form- 
less, uncontrollable ^  swooping  down  into  the  Olympian 


THE  RELIGION'  OF  BEAUTY.  503 

household  and  upsetting  the  plans  of  the  Gods.  At  other 
times  this  dim  power  seems  one  with  the  might  of  Zeus, 
who  thus  becomes  the  one  and  supreme  divinity.  A  ver- 
itable spe*cter  to  the  mind  of  the  Greeks,  standing  back 
of  their  world ;  so  it  must  remain  while  their  time  lasts. 
But  that  specter  will  advance  into  the  foreground  and 
develop  into  the  solidest  reality ;  we  saw  it  come  down 
upon  Greece  at  Chaeroneia,  and  sweep  away  the  Olym- 
pian world.  In  many  forms  it  hovered  there  in  the 
Greek  background ;  Fate  the  tragedians  called  it,  and 
represented  it  as  the  outer  unknown  realm  which  inclosed 
every  Grecian  man  and  the  Grecian  State,  thus  making  it 
the  dark,  awe-inspiring  setting  for  their  tragedies.  Homer 
rather  subjects  Fate  to  Zeus,  by  conceiving  both  to  be 
one  at  bottom ;  yet  even  he  is  full  of  premonition  of  that 
which  is  to  come  ;  developed  Hellas  will  be  over-arched 
by  that  impenetrable  brazen  sky  of  Fate  which  at  last 
will  fall  and  crush  all  that  is  beneath  it. 

In  such  untoward  way  the  One  appears  to  the  Greek 
world,  spectral,  fateful,  threatening.  Moreover  it  was 
conceived  as  formless  in  the  main,  while  the  happy  Greek 
Gods  had  forms,  beautiful  forms  standing  in  the  clearest 
daylight.  That  supreme  One  cannot  be  formed,  cannot 
have  limits  put  upon  it.  No  one  can  get  the  full  con- 
sciousness of  the  Greek  worshipper  without  this  amor- 
phous fatality  eternally  hovering  over  him,  even  over  his 
Gods.  It  was  the  shudder  he  felt  in  his  joy,  it  was  the 
everlasting  threat  suspended  over  his  life,  his  world ;  it 
was  the  God  above  his  Gods,  it  was  the  One  behind  the 
Many  and  controlling  them.  Polytheism  begets  Fate. 

Yet  the  strange  thing  to  us  is,  that  this  condition  did 
not  produce  unhappiness,  but  joy  rather.  The  Grecian 
man  accepted  the  event  in  full ;  if  it  occurred,  that  was 
enough,  it  had  a  supreme  right  to  be,  whatever  may  have 
been  his  will  in  the  matter.  The  fact  is  the  divine  real- 
ity with  which  he  will  not  quarrel  even  if  it  kills  him ; 
thus  he  retains  his  mood  in  spite  of  the  Tartarean  ray  of 
Fate  casting  long  shadows  upon  him  and  his  world. 
Indeed  he  was  more  joyous  than  we  can  possibly  be,  just 
for  the  reason  that  Fate  lay  outside  of  him  ;  thus  he  could 


504  A    WALK  IK  HELLAS. 

internally  free  himself  from  its  pressure,  and  remain  se- 
rene, even  mirthful.  But  we  moderns  have  taken  up 
Fate  into  ourselves ;  we  have  made  it  internal,  and  thus 
destroyed  it ;  such  is  the  Christian  solution.  StiH  we  have 
its  responsibility,  its  weight  within  our  souls,  where  it 
must  be  fought  and  put  down  every  day  with  struggle 
and  sorrow. 

This  necessity  is,  therefore,  the  highest  divine  attri- 
bute ;  it  must  accordingly  appear  in  the  Greek  Gods 
themselves.  Mark  its  transition;  it  is  the  supreme  in- 
fluence of  the  Greek  Pantheon,  hence  must  enter  every 
deity ;  hardly  of  that  Pantheon  it  is,  yet  it  cannot  be  ex- 
cluded. Is  not  the  conception  of  God  one  of  power, 
indeed  of  all-power?  But  here  is  the  supreme  power ; 
Fate  is  that  highest  might  in  which  each  Greek  God  must 
participate,  if  he  be  a  God.  This  is  his  one  divine  ele- 
ment among  many  human  elements,  this  constitutes  his 
unity  with  divinity ;  take  this  away,  and  the  Gods  are 
merely  human,  are  indeed  no  Gods.  But  as  above  all 
chance  and  partaking  of  this  necessity,  they  are  deities. 

Thus  Fate,  the  supreme  One,  descends  into  the  God. 
Now  can  we  find  this  characteristic  in  the  divine  expres- 
sion? Let  us  glance  at  the  statues,  and  mark  the  main 
feature  of  their  faces  ;  a  feature  which  they  manifest  in 
common.  A  look  of  the  eternal,  unchangeable,  a  look  of 
Fate  they  all  have  amid  their  variety ;  human  forms  they 
possess,  but  transfigured  to  something  above ;  they  par- 
take of  an  existence  which  is  not  transitory  and  temporal, 
which  reaches  even  beyond  themselves  into  an  unseen 
world.  They  all  have  that  look  above,  the  look  of  Des- 
tiny ;  this  is  indeed  the  essence  of  Classic  Art,  and  which 
no  other  art  has  or  can  have  —  that  divine  look  above,  the 
look  of  Fate.  So  we  see  the  element  of  necessity  mani- 
festing itself  in  the  divine  and  becoming  its  attribute, 
declaring,  Thus  must  the  God  be  and  not  otherwise.  A 
gallery  of  antique  sculpture  has  such  a  look  even  through 
Roman  imitation ;  its  chief  interest  is,  that  we  may  be- 
hold all  these  chiseled  shapes  having  the  one  look,  the 
look  of  Destiny. 

The  statue  of  the  God,  though  a  reproduction  of  man's 


THE  RELIGION  OF  BEAUTY.  505 

physical  body,  has  in  it  something  far  more ;  indeed,  the 
fact  that  it  is  not  a  copy  of  the  human  form,  makes  it 
what  it  is,  namely  a  work  of  Art,  a  manifestation  of  the 
Divine  in  a  sensuous  shape.  Mere  imitation  it  is  not ; 
the  distinctive  thing  is  thus  left  out,  which  is  the  look  of 
necessity,  the  serene  elevation  above  the  temporal.  The 
actual  man  of  flesh  and  blood  has  in  him  and  around  him 
the  element  of  accident ;  his  physical  being  is  on  all  sides 
exposed  to  mutation  ;  the  transitory  is  the  very  stamp  of  his 
life.  The  child  of  Time  and  Place,  the  sport  of  Chance, 
the  victim  of  externalities  —  such  is  the  individual  man  by 
nature  ;  but  in  this  statuesque  formation,  or  rather  trans- 
formation, the  phase  of  accident  is  stripped  off,  the  cap- 
rices of  Nature  are  gotten  rid  of,  he  is  created  anew  by 
the  Artist,  every  part  of  his  frame  has  the  image  of  ne- 
cessity peering  through  the  physical  setting,  the  human 
form  is  transfigured  into  the  Divine  one. 

Such,  then,  is  the  work  of  the  Artist:  to  transmute  the 
finite  into  the  eternal ;  it  still  seems  the  earthly  shape,  yet 
everything  earthly  has  been  removed,  made  pure  by 
Olympian  fire.  To  have  the  e}^e  which  can  see  the  true  in 
these  fleeting  members,  and  embody  the  same  in  a  marble 
shape  which  speaks  of  aught  more  lasting  than  marble, 
which  has  the  look  of  Destiny  itself,  belongs  to  the  Artist, 
the  God-compelling  man,  not  Artist  so  much  as  Priest,  as 
Revealer.  The  natural  thus  becomes  the  bearer  of  the 
spiritual,  which  is  its  supreme  purpose  in  the  world. 
Note  again  that  the  work  of  Art  is  not  the  copy  of  some 
model ;  then  the  merely  accidental  features  and  natural 
elements  would  appear ;  it  is  the  transformation  of  these 
into  the  image  of  the  necessary,  of  the  divine.  So  the 
Gods  of  Greece  looked  in  their  true  realization,  when 
they  were  the  creation  of  faith,  of  the  Religion  of  Beauty. 
That  look  above  is  the  Idea,  filling  the  soul  of  Seer,  now 
the  Artist ;  with  it,  every  limb  becomes  transparent  and 
reveals  the  God.  Later  in  time  this  faith  was  lost,  Real- 
ism entered  and  the  Ideal  vanished  from  the  marble 
Pantheon. 

The  great  religious  teacher  of  Greece,  therefore,  was 
the  Artist,  and  his  doctrine  was  the  Religion  of  Beauty 


506  A  WALK  TK  HELLA&. 

not  as  an  affected  dilletantism,  but  as  a  profound,  soul- 
inspiring  faith.  He  revealed  the  Highest  unto  the  wor- 
shipper with  a  sacred  zeal ;  through  his  work  alone  the 
divinity  was  manifested.  His  gift  was  imagination,  cre- 
ative imagination,  for  he  created  the  Gods,  that  is,  re- 
vealed them.  Recollect  the  statement  of  the  pious  old 
Historian,  Herodotus,  who  says 'that  the  poets  Homer  and 
Hesiod  gave  to  the  Greeks  their  Gods  ;  the  same  was  true 
of  Phidias  the  sculptor.  The  imagination  catches  the 
look  of  Destiny  and  fastens  it  into  a  face  ;  thus  it  trans- 
mutes the  human  to  the  divine,  nature  to  spirit ;  it  fills 
the  shape  with  the  Ideal  and  makes  it  a  work  of  Art.  Yet 
to  the  Greek  it  was  moi-e,  it  was  a  God,  a  revelation  of 
the  world-governing  power,  and  worthy  of  being  worship- 
ped ;  thus  Art  and  Religion  were  inseparable,  and  there 
arose  the  Religion  of  Beauty.  The  great  Revealer,  too, 
was  the  Artist,  who  was  truly  the  High  Priest  or  the  In- 
terpreter of  the  God  to  men ;  as  Religion  and  Art  fall  to- 
gether and  become  one,  so  do  priest  and  artist. 

Such  is  the  twofold  development  of  the  Greek  Pan- 
theon ;  the  Gods  descending  into  the  sensuous  world  for 
their  manifestation  become  many  individuals,  each  of 
whom  participates  in  the  divine  essence,  and  thus  looks 
back  to  the  unity  of  them  all.  It  is  the  One,  this  glim- 
mer of  the  true  God,  threatening  Olympus  from  the  out- 
side like  Destiny,  yet  reflected  in  the  face  of  every  Greek 
deity.  But  the  multiplicity  remains  the  enduring  fact, 
without  it  there  could  be  no  beautiful  world,  no  Religion 
of  Beauty;  with  it  Delphi  alone  becomes  a  beautiful 
world  of  these  transfigured  shapes,  into  which  the  Artist 
has  put  the  look  of  the  Divine  One ;  thousands  upon 
thousands  they  stand  here,  statues  forming  an  Olympus 
of  their  own.  Nature,  too,  comes  to  the  front  with  her 
transformations ;  every  object  of  hers  is  changed  to  an 
image,  if  not  of  marble,  then  of  poetry,  even  more  lasting 
than  marble. 

We  may  now  turn  to  the  second  religious  factor ;  the 
worshipper,  and  seek  to  enter  into  his  feeling  and 
thought  as  he  approached  his  sanctuary.  Worship  is 
the  act  of  the  finite  man  elevating  himself  into  harmony 


TIIK  RELIGION  OF  BEAUTY.  507 

with  the  Divine ;  he  feels  the  God  dwelling  within,  and 
thus  passes  from  alienation  to  unity  with  the  Highest. 
The  work  of  Art  is  the  revelation  of  Divinity ;  in  it  deity 
descends  into  the  world,  and  is  reconciled  with  the 
world.  Before  the  statue  the  worshipper  appears,  and  is 
to  make  the  harmony  expressed  in  it  his  own,  the  harmony 
between  the  senses  and  spirit;  thus  his  life  will  be  in 
musical  concert  with  the  world  around  him.  For  that 
image  of  stone  is  to  become  internal,  the  worshipper  is  to 
transform  it  into  spirit,  to  transform  the  hard  marble ; 
he  is  to  make  the  God  indwell  his  soul.  Temple,  too,  is 
to  go  within  him ;  hence  it  is  built  with  such  care  and 
beauty ;  the  finite  man  is  raised  to  be  the  true  temple  of 
divinity. 

As  the  Artist  reveals  the  God,  so  the  worshipper  takes 
up  the  revelation  and  makes  it  his  own,  makes  it  himself. 
The  one  forms  the  beautiful  object,  the  other  transforms 
himself  into  that  beautiful  object,  and  thus  is  his  own 
Artist,  with  his  own  life  as  material.  Such  was  the  true 
Greek  worshipper,  he  also  had  to  be  Artist,  to  be  poet  in 
his  worship.  The  image  before  him  must  rise  out  of  its 
natural  form  into  its  spiritual  suggestion ;  devotion  was  a 
poetic  work,  an  act  of  imagination  ;  still  further,  he  must 
mould  his  character  into  that  conception  ;  thus  he  realizes 
in  himself  the  nature  of  his  God,  and  becomes  a  Maker 
too.  The  shape  of  stone  before  his  eye  is  not  of  necessity 
an  idol ;  it  is  rather  a  radiant  image  which  flashes  into 
him  the  divine  manifestation ;  it  is  the  supreme  artistic 
model  after  which  he  is  to  fashion  himself.  The  Greek 
Divine  Service  was  an  act  of  the  poetic  imagination; 
worship  was  a  poem  conceived,  if  not  sung;  therein  was 
the  worshipper  elevated  into  the  presence  of  the  beautiful 
God,  into  whose  image  he  was  to  transform  himself,  and 
be  a  living  embodiment  of  the  Religion  of  Beauty. 

We  must  expect  to  find  the  character  of  the  Greek 
Pantheon  imprinted  upon  the  Greek  man  who  adored 
its  deities.  There  was  the  polytheistic  side ;  festivals, 
games,  theater,  song  and  dance,  all  in  honor  of  the  God. 
The  rich,  sensuous  life  of  the  Greeks  unfolded  in  this 
divine  multiplicity  to  its  fullest  bloom.  There  was,  too, 


508  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

the  Olympian  sportfulness,  for  many  are  the  Gods,  and 
they  cannot  all  be  in  earnest ;  they  must  limit  one  another 
and  be  like  mortals,  though  they  claim  to  be  Gods  too. 
There  is  an  irony  in  them  which  is  always  ready  to  burst 
into  open  mirth ;  they  are  indeed  a  happy  company.  Yet 
there  is  the  unity  behind  them,  the  dark  background  of 
Fate  which  threatens  them  all,  in  which  however  they 
must  participate ;  thus  joy  passes  into  earnestness,  and 
both  are  joined  in  a  supreme  serenity. 

In  the  Greek  sacrifice,  too,  the  same  principle  prevailed ; 
some  object  of  value  was  surrendered,  swine  and  cattle 
were  slaughtered  to  the  God,  but  therein  were  enjoyed, 
for  the  sacrifice  was  a  scene  of  eating  and  drinking ;  the 
God  was  chiefly  honored  by  man's  happiness.  This  is 
not  our  notion  of  sacrifice,  this  is  not  renunciation,  the 
surrender  of  the  whole  life  to  some  divine  behest,  accom- 
panied with  Avant,  hardship,  even  death.  To  the  Greek 
such  a  renunciation  would  be  a  terrific  dissonance ;  be- 
tween the  divine  and  sensuous  life  there  must  be  harmony, 
which  finds  its  true  utterance  in  worship.  Polytheism  is 
this  descent  into  the  realm  of  the  senses  which  it  fills 
with  song,  sacrifice,  festival,  — in  fine,  fills  with  beautiful 
Gods,  and  reconciles,  for  a  time  at  least,  the  Upper  and 
Lower  Worlds. 

But  that  outside  power  still  remained  and  made  itself 
felt  in  everything  —  that  external  might  of  destiny.  Every 
Greek  will  was  to  a  degree  paralyzed  by  it,  and  would  not 
act  without  a  sign  which  came  from  the  outside  power. 
There  was  something  external  to  him  which  he  knew  not 
of,  it  was  the  Divine  which  showed  itself  in  an  omen,  it 
was  the  Fate  which  lay  back  of  his  life,  back  of  his  Olym- 
pus. He  had  not  in  himself  the  complete  circuit  of  his 
deed.  Behold  the  flight  of  the  eagle,  it  furnishes  the  mis- 
sing link  without  which  he  cannot  act,  it  is  the  messenger 
of  the  hidden  power,  whose  very  essence  consists  in  not 
being  understood.  Any  object  of  Nature  might  express 
that  unknown  realm,  which  lies  outside  of  his  purpose ; 
the  rustling  of  leaves,  the  brook,  the  bird,  animals,  un- 
conscious human  speech.  Thus  an  external  accidental 
power  entered  into  every  Greek  deed,  as  it  was  a  constit- 
uent part  of  the  Greek  wroiid. 


THE  RELIGION  OF  BE  A  UTY.  509 

It  is  in  the  drama,  however,  that  we  find  the  strongest 
expression  of  this  external  power.  It  makes  the  poetry 
of  the  Greeks  tragic,  as  well  as  their  world.  Fate  enters 
and  sweeps  off  the  individual  who  acts,  particularly  the 
heroic  individual.  His  deed  lies  in  a  realm  which  is  sur- 
rounded and  controlled  on  all  sides  by  this  incalculable 
destiny ;  he  defies  it,  grapples  with  it,  like  a  Greek  ath- 
lete, and  is  flung  out  of  existence  for  his  daring.  A  wrest- 
ler with  Fate  is  the  Greek  tragic  character ;  manfully  he 
steps  forth  to  meet  his  combatant,  the  dark  and  formless, 
issuing  from  the  bounds  of  the  Greek  horizon ;  the  spec- 
tators look  on  with  quakes  of  terror,  for  they  feel  in  the 
end  of  their  hero  their  own  end,  the  end  of  Hellas.  It  is 
that  same  Destiny  which  we  saw  threatening  Olympus. 

The  great  historical  character,  Themistocles,  Alexan- 
der, has  the  same  element  in  him ;  like  the  Greek  divinity 
he  is  the  victim  of  Fate.  He,  too,  is  a  tragic  character, 
his  end  is  unhappy ;  heroically  he  struggles  with  his  prob- 
lem, but  it  contains  the  portion  of  Destiny  which  over- 
whelms him  at  last.  Yet  this  is  not  all.  Fate  descends 
into  him,  as  it  descended  into  his  deity,  and  becomes  a 
part  of  his  innermost  nature,  in  fact  his  divine,  eternal 
part.  The  Great  Men  of  Greece  are  plastic  figures,  as 
the  Gods  are ;  they  have  that  look  above,  the  look  of  des- 
tiny ;  they  seem  beyond  mortals,  into  whose  form  they 
have  come  down,  they  are  still  our  exemplars  of  lofty  in- 
dividuality. Their  high  deeds  show  this  fateful  influence, 
which,  while  it  smites  them  from  without,  at  the  same 
tune  possesses  them  within. 

In  some  such  way  we  bring  before  ourselves  the  two 
leading  facts  —  the  worshipped  and  the  worshipper  —  of 
the  Religion  of  Beauty.  There  was  the  recognition  of 
the  God  by  the  Man,  and  of  the  Man  by  the  God ;  the 
two  touch  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy  and  become  filled  with 
endless  musical  vibrations.  How  comes  it  that  the  Greek 
soul  was  so  melodious  ?  is  the  ever-recurring,  never-an- 
swered question  ;  to  the  last  a  person  is  dissatisfied  with 
any  abstract  solution,  however  complete,  and  longs  to 
turn  his  ear  to  the  music  itself.  We  know  that  this  sen- 
suous life  when  filled  with  the  divine  spirit  throbs  in  pul- 


510  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

sations  of  harmony,  which  are  the  source  of  all  true 
song ;  we  know  that  the  God  embodied  in  forms  of  sense 
becomes  the  supremely  beautiful,  and  giver  of  joys 
which  make  life  one  continued  festival.  Therein  we  may 
dwell  for  a  time,  in  imagination  at  least,  which  we  are 
aware  is  the  soul  of  Greek  worship. 

Another  question  we  must  ask  of  this  religion,  the 
gravest  of  all  questions :  For  the  heart  alienated  from 
the  God,  what  way  of  restoration  could  it  show?  What 
peace  could  it  offer  to  a  being  who  has  become  conscious 
of  a  separation  from  the  Divine,  perhaps  of  a  fall  there- 
from? For  man,  even  the  Grecian  man  must  have  expe- 
rienced at  times  a  scission  from  what  keeps  the  Universe 
in  order,  from  what  is  truest  above  and  here  below.  To 
overcome  that  deep  disruption,  and  to  set  the  jarring  soul 
in  concert  with  itself  and  the  world,  is  the  prime  task  of 
every  Religion,  and  of  every  worthy  system  of  Thought. 
The  bright  Greek  temperament  falls  into  discord,  into 
sorrow,  possibly  into  despair ;  what  rescue  ?  The  Re- 
ligion of  Beauty  has  a  path  of  escape,  a  by-path,  not 
clear,  not  fully  revealed,  but  unquestionably  helpful. 

This  is  the  domain  of  the  Mj'steries,  Eleusinian  for 
example,  which,  true  to  their  name,  have  remained  mys- 
terious to  this  day.  But  so  much  may  be  said  of  them : 
they  were  separated  from  the  open  public  worship ;  the 
beautiful  world,  product  of  imagination,  revealed  in  Art, 
was  abandoned ;  a  deeper,  more  awful  rite  was  craved  by 
the  soul.  Initiation  was  required;  it  was  something 
which  did  not  carry  its  purport  on  its  face ;  symbolism 
entered  which  seeks  to  convey  a  meaning  from  beyond ; 
the  simple  harmony  between  spirit  and  sense,  which  is 
the  principle  of  Art,  is  split  asunder,  and  Art  is  no  longer 
its  own  explanation.  The  way  of  purification  from  the 
natural  and  the  rise  to  the  purely  spiritual,  by  symbols,  is 
the  mystery  —  a  mystery  indeed  to  the  Religion  of  Beauty, 
indicating  its  limitation  as  well  as  its  final  overthrow. 
Yet  even  thus  the  mastery  is  reached,  not  through  suffer- 
ing but  through  vision  ;  after  all,  the  individual,  serenely 
viewing  the  wondrous  image  of  transformation,  is  not  as- 
sailed, but  ha^  Lis  joy,  and  so  Art  makes  itself  valid  in 


THE  RELIGION  OF  BEAUTY.  511 

this  last  Greek  refuge.  Some  glance  into  immortality 
was  also  given,  doubtless,  in  the  Mysteries ;  since  to  be- 
hold it  is  the  last  purification  of  vision.  But  their  great 
doctrine  was  unquestionably  that  unity  of  the  Godhead, 
which  in  the  public  religion  had  dropped  into  potythe- 
ism ;  some  adumbration  of  the  One,  the  spiritual  One, 
must  have  been  given,  and  thus  Fate,  the  tragedy  of  the 
ancient  world  was  to  a  degree  softened,  if  not  overcome, 
by  the  Mysteries. 

But  the  plainest  view  of  a  mastery  over  Fate,  V7as  given 
by  the  great  Athenian  tragic  poets,  who  thereby  indicated 
that  they  were  uot  fully  satisfied  with  their  Art,  or  at  least 
saw  beyond  its  limits.  Look  at  blind  old  Oedipus,  who 
was  so  often  whelmed  into  wrong  by  that  dire  external 
power,  and  heroically  took  all  the  consequences  as  his 
own  ;  at  last  through  -much  suffering  the  insight  of  free- 
dom comes  to  him,  he  declares  his  innocence  and  is  ab- 
solved from  guilt,  being  received  to  the  Gods.  Still 
stronger  is  the  example  of  Orestes,  as  portrayed  by 
Aeschylus  ;  after  long  wandering  and  sorrow,  he  is  puri- 
fied of  crime  sent  upon  him  by  Fate,  and  is  restored  to  a 
new  guiltless  life  by  institutions  which  pronounce  him 
free  ;  thus  he  is  not  taken  to  the  Gods  for  salvation,  but 
is  rescued  in  this  lower  world.  Deepest  prophetic  gleam 
is  this,  not  merely  into  the  future  of  the  Greek  religion, 
but  of  all  religion,  which  is  to  be  truly  realized  in  secular 
institutions.  In  such  manner  the  ancient  tragic  poets 
seem  to  break  with  Fate,  casting  far  ahead  in  Time  and 
demanding  some  reconciliation,  though  Fate  was  the 
ground-work  of  their  Art  and  of  their  world. 

Such  was  the  lofty  view  of  the  Athenian  bards,  true 
prophets  ;  a  glimpse  into  the  atonement  which  was  to  be, 
an  early  message  was  theirs  of  that  religion  of  suffering 
through  which  comes  the  final  reconciliation.  They  saw 
that  mind  must  heal  its  own  wounds,  if  it  be  universal ; 
sorrow  purifies  the  soul,  which  therein  reaches  a  new 
transfiguration.  Some  such  word  they  speak,  must  in- 
deed speak,  for  the  poet  is  the  herald  of  the  new  time 
which  bursts  out  of  the  old.  But  with  that  word  comes 
another  change ;  the  Religion  of  Beauty,  which  had  made 


512  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

its  world  so  harmonious,  separates  into  two  hostile  armies, 
and  the  war  between  the  spirit  and  senses  opens ;  there- 
with the  Greek  music  is  brought  to  a  close. 


XXIV.     THE  GREAT  TRANSITION. 

The  traveler  will  pass  Lent  at  Delphi,  he  will  witness 
there  the  ceremonies  of  Easter ;  a  new  note,  deepest, 
most  intense  of  all,  thus  mingles  with  the  old  Delphic 
music  and  brings  it  to  a  conclusion.  He  is  upon  the 
ground  where  the  last  great  religious  change  of  his  race 
was  accomplished  with  long,  desperate  struggle ;  the 
whole  people  still  celebrate  this  change  with  surprising 
vividness  and  faith ;  it  is  the  time  of  strong  sympathetic 
renewal  of  the  event  and  its  memories.  Yet  there  is  one 
point  of  identity :  as  the  ancient  Delphic  man  went  through 
the  history  of  the  God  in  his  worship,  so  the  modern 
Delphic  man  enacts  the  life  of  the  new  deity.  It  is  the 
last  transition ;  we  must  seek  now  to  make  this  transition 
too,  and  our  task  is  done. 

Much  have  we  spoken  of  Fate  in  the  Greek  time ;  let 
us  at  once  go  back  to  it  again,  and  move  with  it,  for  it 
is  the  driving  principle  of  the  mighty  spiritual  change  of 
the  old  world.  Already  wehave  marked  the  ancient  wor- 
shiper at  his  devotion,  aud  have  seen  how  he  felt  that 
Fate  behind  his  many  Gods,  the  spectral  One  which 
hovered  over  his  existence,  and  entered  into  the  very  soul 
of  his  divinities.  But  by  this  act  of  worship  he  too  par- 
ticipates in  the  One  in  which  the  Gods  participate ;  he 
thus  rises  with  the  Gods  above  the  Gods.  The  Greek  re- 
ligion always  pointed  to  the  One  higher  than  itself ;  the 
Greek  worshiper,  as  he  rose  to  intimacy  with  the  Divine, 
beheld  and  followed  the  indication.  The  Greek  faith 
prophesied  its  own  end,  the  prophecy  was  heard  by  its 
children,  who  must  in  time  manifest  its  fulfilment.  Such 
is  the  preparation  going  on  in  every  Greek  heart  by  wor- 
ship. 


TEE  QBE  AT  TRANSITION.  513 

Then  comes  the  terrible  reality,  which  we  have  already 
noted ;  Fate  realized  descends  upon  the  Greek  world, 
first  in  the  Macedonian,  then  in  the  Roman  conquerer. 
This  was  the  bitter  discipline  of  Greece,  its  intense  suffer- 
ing ;  the  Roman  sway  was  Fate  realized,  no  longer  divine 
and  threatening  Olympus,  but  terrestrial,  having  come 
down  to  earth  and  taken  its  abode  there.  The  suffering, 
however,  was  not  of  Greece  alone,  but  of  the  whole  world, 
which  Rome  reduced  to  its  iron  sway  and  held  fast  in  its 
clutches  by  its  iron  organization.  The  world  is  lost,  its 
Gods  conquered,  dead ;  Fate  is  supreme  in  reality,  the 
most  real  thing  of  the  age. 

But  what  has  become  of  this  Fate  which  stood  outside 
of  Hellas  with  its  dark  minatory  glance  ?  It  has  come 
down  into  the  world,  and  no  longer  stands  outside  of 
the  same  ;  it  has  now  become  internal  and  thus  disappears, 
for  it  is  the  nature  of  Fate  to  be  external.  It  was  there- 
fore destroying  itself  when  it  was  destroying  the  world  ; 
when  it  descended  from  its  high  threatening  position,  it 
could  threaten  no  more ;  its  own  realization  was  its  own 
end. 

Such  was  the  subtle  inner  movement  of  history ;  Rome 
was  the  minister  of  Fate,  fulfilling  its  behests,  but  there- 
in destroying  it ;  that  dread  external  power  no  longer 
controls  the  world  which  is  now  ready  for  freedom,  for 
the  new  Word.  The  Roman  discipline  has  been  the 
scourge  of  the  peoples,  but  it  has  conferred  the  greatest 
blessing  upon  the  race  ;  it  has  put  Fate  inside  the  world, 
by  conquest,  organization,  law.  The  soil  is  indeed  ready  ; 
for  mark  now  the  ancient  worshiper,  particularly  the 
Greek  worshiper:  he,  in  adoring  the  Gods,  adores  the 
One  in  which  they  all  are  divine ;  he,  too,  is  putting  Fate 
within  himself  in  the  act  of  worship.  Thus  the  man  is 
doing  for  himself  what  Rome  is  doing  for  the  world; 
each  individual  is  passing  through  the  same  process  which 
the  universal  soul  of  the  age  is  passing  through.  Fate 
both  as  regards  the  world  and  the  individual,  is  becoming 
internal,  and  is  thereby  ceasing  to  be  at  all. 

Untold  has  been  the  suffering ;  direst  agony  through 
war,  slavery,  chiefly  through  death  of  the  Gods,  without 

33 


514  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

any  new  divinity  to  take  their  place.  But  liberation  is  at 
hand,  could  the  world  but  see  it ;  that  is  indeed  the  next 
problem,  to  make  the  world  see  it,  to  bring  the  mighty 
change  home  to  the  soul  of  man  and  thus  save  him.  The 
person  now  comes  forward  who  is  to  reveal  the  new  fact, 
reveal  it  not  by  word  merely  but  by  action,  by  his 
own  life.  That  simple  history  of  him  is  in  reality  the 
World's  History ;  one  individual  embodies  in  his  own  life 
the  spiritual  life  of  the  race,  and  is  truly  the  image,  the 
very  Son  of  the  Highest. 

He  came  just  when  Rome  had  accomplished  her  mis- 
sion as  minister  of  Fate,  she  had  conquered  the  world 
which  was  now  to  be  redeemed,  that  is  to  be  presented 
with  the  boon  of  freedom,  of  inner  spiritual  freedom, 
freedom  from  Fate.  Thus  destroyed  mankind  rises  up 
transfigured,  and  there  is  a  resurrection  after  death ;  the 
dead  world  slain  like  Christ  by  Fate,  has  received  a  new 
life,  with  Fate  overcome  forever.  Fate  in  slaying  the 
old  world  has  slain  itself,  and  therein  begotten  a  new 
world  whose  principle  is  not  Fate  but  Freedom ;  this  is 
the  glad  Evangel  which  is  now  to  find  utterance  in  word 
and  deed,  and  thus  bring  hope  and  salvation  to  the  per- 
ishing people. 

Deep  and  subtle  is  this  inner  movement  of  history 
which  we  have  been  tracing,  very  hard  to  be  understood 
by  the  humble  unlettered  man.  But  it  is  to  be  revealed, 
revealed  to  the  very  senses  of  the  lowest  human  being, 
who  therein  can  participate  in  the  great  rescue.  It  is 
embodied  in  a  man,  this  is  the  grand  fact  of  incarnation ; 
the  profoundest  thought  of  history  takes  on  flesh  and 
blood,  lives  a  human  life,  seen  and  read  by  all  men  in 
the  crimson  letters  of  the  heart.  Greatest  of  all  events 
is  that  one,  the  incarnation ;  an  individual  can  elevate 
himself  into  being  the  very  soul  of  his  race,  can  live  for 
all,  can  die  for  all ;  can  make  his  life  both  the  past  and 
the  future.  The  incarnation  is  the  utterance  of  the 
World's  History  for  every  man,  even  the  humblest; 
whereby,  if  he  truly  behold  and  believe,  he  is  redeemed 
from  Fate. 

It  is  a  beautiful  morning,  the  traveler  rises  with   the 


THE  GREAT  TRANSITION.  515 

customary  joy  in  his  heart ;  he  will  go  forth  to  look  at 
the  Delphic  vale  and  worship  according  to  the  Religion 
of  Beauty.  But  sober  faces  meet  him  everywhere,  it  is 
announced  that  Lent  has  begun,  and  henceforth  there 
must  be  fasting,  prayer,  religious  exercises  at  Delphi. 
A  time  of  sorrow  has  set  in  ;  Parnassus,  though  bright  as 
ever  upon  its  summits,  must  now  be  wrapped  in  spiritual 
gloom  for  many  days.  What  calamity  has  befallen  you, 
O  Delphians?  Death,  death  that  occurred  some  eighteen 
hundred  years  ago ;  this  death  must  still  be  wept,  cele- 
brated by  sorrow,  abstinence,  penitential  acts  ;  the  whole 
land  is  to  be  draped  in  memory  of  the  Great  Sufferer. 

It  is  indeed  a  striking  change  from  the  joyous  world 
in  which  we  have  been  living.  Suffering,  not  Beauty, 
now  demands  adoration ;  the  chorus  stops  upon  the  Par- 
nassian slopes,  the  betrothal,  the  marriage,  often  the 
daily  tasks  in  the  fields  are  suspended,  festivals  become  a 
curse,  mirth  a  sin.  Food  is  not  to  be  taken  as  usual ;  no 
meat,  no  olive  oil,  not  even  eggs  ;  we  are  to  suffer  death, 
or  some  approach  to  it,  because  of  that  death  so  many 
centuries  ago.  Some  deep  necessity  lies  upon  the  world 
to  suffer  over  again  in  soul  what  its  Heroes  have  suffered ; 
thus  we  are  redeemed  and  saved  from  the  bitter  reality 
of  their  sacrifice.  It  is  a  strange  phenomenon,  doubly 
strange  upon  Parnassus  ;  what  does  it  mean  ? 

This  outer  semblance  of  mourning  means  death,  but 
it  is  an  unusual  death  —  that  of  God.  Awfulest  word  for 
human  lips,  awfulest  thought  for  human  soul,  that  deity 
can  die ;  a  heart-piercing  contradiction  that  makes  the 
man  shout  in  the  pain  of  hopelessness.  There  is  no  con- 
ception like  this  for  utter  woe,  when  it  truly  enters  the 
feeling,  that;  God  can  die,  has  died :  torment,  carnival  of 
distress,  Hell  that  now  is,  to  the  heart  which  receives  the 
wrenching  struggle.  For  is  not  the  whole  spiritual  uni- 
verse in  a  conflict  with  its  own  essence  —  a  war  between 
the  Finite  and  Infinite  in  which  the  latter  loses  and  you 
too  are  lost?  Such  a  pain  now  comes  over  the  Delphic 
world ;  the  people  too  ai-e  seeking  to  die,  or  at  least  to 
approach  the  gates  of  eternity  and  peep  in.  All  the  peo- 
ple share  i»  this  deep  distress,  not  of  one  person,  but  of  a 
world,  not  of  a  man  but  of  a  God. 


516  A  WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

One  will  often  hear  of  the  pompa  or  grand  procession 
in  the  night  before  Easter.  At  midnight  the  sleeper  will 
be  aroused  by  the  tolling  of  bells  ;  the  quiet  village  is  al- 
ready alive  with  a  multitude,  and  the  streets,  usually  so 
dark,  are  illuminated  by  many  a  bonfire.  From  each  of 
the  churches  the  procession  starts  and  moves  through  the 
town,  every  soul  muttering  in  low  voice,  Kyrie  eleeson! 
Lord  Jiave  mercy  I  This  is  the  key-note,  that  of  intense 
sorrow  and  supplication  for  a  world  which  is  perishing. 
A  throng  of  boys  come  first,  shouting  in  shrillest  cries  of 
lamentation,  Kyrie  eleeson!  then  the  dead  Christ  in  rude 
image  is  borne  by  priests  on  his  bier  lighted  with  tapers ; 
after  it  follows  a  long  line  of  men  with  muffled  heads,  each 
carrying  a  torch,  and  repeating  continually  in  a  low 
prayer,  Kyrie  eleeson.  The  procession  completes  the 
circuit  of  the  town,  and  certainly  makes  an  impressive 
display;  from  this  humble  spot  of  earth,  wrapped  in 
night,  there  arises  but  one  voice  to  the  heavens :  Kyrie 
eleeson  I 

For  it  is  a  display,  though  the  participants  are  deeply 
in  earnest ;  the  death  of  the  Saviour  is  acted  out  in  com- 
plete representation,  being  thus  brought  home  to  the  very 
senses  of  the  people.  In  the  church  service,  too,  there  is 
this  element  of  theatrical  exhibition ;  it  indeed  takes  the 
place  of  all  theaters,  which  we  must  remember  were,  in 
the  mind  of  ancient  man,  sacred  to  the  God,  and  hence 
places  of  worship.  The  old  theater  has,  partially  at 
least,  passed  into  the  modern  church.  The  great  tragedy 
of  Christ,  the  sum  of  all  tragedies,  being  the  image  of 
man's  tragic  existence,  is  exhibited  in  decided  colors, 
must  be  exhibited  for  the  people.  Nor  can  the  audience 
remain  mere  spectators,  they  must  take  part,  and  every 
man  has  to  enact  in  himself  the  mighty  sacrifice  of  deity. 
Listen  to  their  song ;  it  is  the  chorus  of  a  fallen  world, 
supplicating  for  pity  and  redemption  —  Kyrie  eleeson  I 

The  ancient  world  was  indeed  tragic,  the  ancients  knew 
it  to  be  so  themselves.  The  great  plays  of  the  Dramatic 
Poets  revealed  it  most  plainly ;  all  the  heroism  and  great- 
ness of  antiquity  rest  upon  this  tragic  background.  But 
now  there  is  a  change,  resurrection  has  come  and  eternal 


THE  GREAT  TRANSITION.  517 

life  ;  salvation  it  is  also  called.  Before  the  simple-hearted 
people  the  life  and  death  of  Christ  have  been  given,  he 
has  been  acted  out  in  full  for  many  days ;  they  have 
taken  him  into  their  very  being  and  have  been  transformed. 
But  the  grand  culmination  enters,  the  drama  of  human 
existence  is  not  now  a  traged}r,  man  is  saved,  and  the  end 
is  restoration.  Here  we  have  old  tragic  Heathendom 
represented  with  its  fatal  termination  ;  but  also  we  have 
the  transition  out  of  it  into  the  Christian  world,  into  the 
new  life ;  this  is  not  and  never  can  be  the  victim  of  Fate, 
whose  last  shout  of  anguish  is  now  dying  away  with  a 
faint  echo  in  the  darkness:  Kyrie  eleeson! 

But  what  is  this  which  the  traveler  suddenly  beholds  ? 
Men  embrace  in  wild  rapture,  crying,  Christos  aneste!  — 
Christ  has  arisen !  The  dolorous  time  is  over  and  the 
question  settled  forever  —  Christos  aneste.  Friends  rejoice 
together,  enemies  are  reconciled,  the  stranger  is  greeted 
with  fresh  welcome  ;  it  is  indeed  a  new  world  —  Christos 
aneste.  On  the  streets,  in  the  wineshop,  at  the  hearth, 
they  dance  and  shout  that  the  old  time  of  sorrow  is 
gone —  the  time  of  Fate  — Christos  aneste.  Uncontrolled 
is  the  joy ;  they  kiss,  men  and  women ;  that  is,  the  men 
kiss  the  men,  and  the  women  the  women ;  not  the  men  the 
women  —  at  least  not  to  the  vision  of  the  watchful  trav- 
eler, who  is,  however,  borne  along  irresistibly  in  the 
stream,  and  shouts  with  the  rest  of  the  people :  Christos 
aneste.  Such  is  the  happy  solution  of  the  great  tragedy ; 
the  world  bursts  into  a  sudden  comedy,  at  times  ridicu- 
lous enough,  but  always  deeply  genuine ;  joy  cannot  be 
held  down  by  propriety,  but  breaks  out  into  a  universal 
laugh ;  it  is  the  grand  drama  of  mediation  in  which  all  are 
saved  in  that  glorious  last  act :  Christos  aneste. 

After  the  first  jubilant  effervescence,  the  crowd  dis- 
perses to  amuse  itself  till  daybreak,  when  the  roasting  of 
the  lambs  will  begin,  and  the  grand  barbecue  take  place ; 
for  the  season  of  fasting,  of  death,  is  now  over.  A  large 
company  adjourns  from  the  church  to  the  wineshop,  a 
very  easy  transition  in  Greece ;  hot  punch  is  served  up, 
games  are  played,  songs  are  sung,  while  we  are  all  watch- 
ing for  the  chaste  light  of  Aurora  to  creep  over  the  top  of 
Parnassus.  But  she  delayed,  and  I  grew  tired  of  watch- 


518  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

ing  so  long  under  the  window  of  the  intractable  beauty ; 
I  slipped  away  from  my  more  determined  companions, 
and  went  home  for  an  hour's  repose.  Still  there  ascended 
from  the  village,  as  I  threaded  its  dark  alleys,  the  notes 
of  mirth  and  song,  whose  burden  was  that  universal  shout 
of  jubilation :  Christos  aneste. 

It  was  high  morning  before  I  was  awake,  my  room  was 
full  of  smoke,  and  I  sprang  out  of  my  bed,  thinking  the 
house  was  on  fire.  I  slid  into  garments,  and  raked  my 
articles  together  into  the  knapsack,  not  forgetting  this 
note-book  ;  every  moment  I  expected  the  flames  to  break 
through  the  ceiling  or  door,  for  the  smoke  was  thickening 
to  suffocation.  I  raised  the  window,  ready  to  leap  out ; 
voices  I  heard  in  the  yard,  the  schoolmaster's  baby  cried 
in  the  next  room,  female  coughing  resounded  through  the 
apartments.  What  was  now  the  reflection  of  the  traveler? 
Fate  has,  then,  not  been  put  down  so  completely,  but  ap- 
pears again,  savage,  inexorable,  on  this  very  morning  of 
the  day  when  we  are  celebrating  our  victory  over  him. 
Besides  a  rain  has  come  up,  and  is  moderating  the  joys 
of  the  festival  with  torrents  of  heavenly  tears. 

Still  the  fateful  threat  must  be  some  illusion,  a  mere 
comic  show ;  I  can  hear  the  laughter  of  the  people  out- 
side amid  their  prolonged  fits  of  coughing.  Just  then  the 
schoolmaster,  my  host,  rushed  into  the  room,  half -choked, 
and  explained  the  situation.  The  Capitanos,  our  next 
neighbor,  had  built  a  huge  fire  in  the  yard  for  roasting  the 
lambs.  The  rain  had  driven  him  to  bring  the  fire  under 
the  shelter  of  the  porch,  whence  the  draught  had  sucked 
the  smoke  into  every  room  of  the  house.  No  danger ;  it 
was  all  smoke  and  no  fire  this  time.  My  room  had  become 
uninhabitable  ;  I  rushed  out  to  the  porch,  but  the  smoke 
there  was  still  denser.  Thence  I  fled  into  the  open  yard, 
but  it  was  raining  by  the  bucketful.  Meantime  the  Capi- 
tanos was  heaping  on  grape-vines  and  the  smoke  was 
increasing.  Holding  my  breath  I  ran  back  into  my  room  ; 
but  this,  too,  was  full  of  murkiness  with  tormenting  de- 
mons in  it ;  surely  old  Splayfoot  is  in  pursuit  of  me,  and 
will  get  me  on  this  Easter  morning  for  my  many  sins. 
A  fateful  situation :  outside  is  drowning,  inside  is  suffo- 


THE  GEE  AT  TRANSITION.  519 

cation;  how  can  poor  mortal  escape?  At  last  I  com- 
promised between  the  two  infernal  powers  by  hanging  my 
head  out  of  the  window  under  the  eaves,  and  leaving  my 
hams  and  sides  within  to  be  smoked.  Think  of  me,  sym- 
pathetic fellow-mortals,  hanging  there,  trying  to  save  my 
bacon  —  Kyrie  eleeson. 

Finally  our  fire-fiend,  the  Capitanos,  had  his  bed  of 
coals  ready,  the  smoke  cleared  away,  I  was  released  from 
the  new  grip  of  destiny,  and  we  all  rushed  out  of  the 
house  into  the  open  air ;  even  the  rain  had  ceased,  and 
the  glorious  sun  had  come  out  of  the  clouds,  as  if  he  too 
was  going  to  celebrate  Easter  with  us,  vividly  imaging  the 
great  restoration,  and  chiming  with  a  refrain  of  sun- 
beams —  Cliristos  anesle.  But  the  Capitanos  is  now  our 
hero ;  he  is  in  the  splendid  humor  of  success,  as  he  rakes 
together  the  large  pile  of  live  coals  burnt  from  grape  cut- 
tings, which  give  a  special  flavor  to  roast  lamb,  a  slight 
delicate  tip  of  Bacchic  ecstasy.  The  Capitanos,  too,  is 
not  without  his  wish  for  immortality ;  at  every  important 
stage  of  his  heroic  achievements  he  calls  out  to  the 
stranger  present,  whom  he  considers  to  be  some  wander- 
ing Homerid:  "  Take  a  note  of  that,  Didascali." 

But  it  is  time  to  begin  the  roasting.  The  entire  car- 
cass of  the  lamb  is  spitted  on  a  long  pole  and  held  over 
the  coals  ;  the  turnspit,  who  is  none  other  than  our  Cap- 
itanos, keeps  turning  till  it  be  evenly  done  throughout. 
There  he  sits  in  his  court,  watching  the  progress  of  the 
work,  once  in  a  while  stirring  the  coals,  speaking  in 
loud  commanding  tones,  conscious  of  an  heroic  deed ;  for 
did  not  the  old  heroes  do  something  very  similar  to  what 
he  is  doing  I  Women,  children  and  stranger  look  on  in 
wonder,  often  placing  themselves  in  the  fragrant  wreaths 
of  fatty  incense  which  rises  up  from  the  steaming  carcass 
gratefully  to  the  Gods.  The  children  roast  little  pieces, 
such  as  heart  and  liver,  for  themselves,  and  devour  the 
same  like  young  lions ;  it  is  now  many  weeks  since  they 
have  tasted  flesh;  "  it  seems  a  hundred  j-ears,"  said  the 
wife  of  neighbor  Patioclus,  who  had  dropped  in  for  a 
moment  to  kiss  our  hostess.  "  Have  you  such  things  iu 
your  country?"  asked  the  Capitanos.  "  Yes,  we  have 


520  A    WALK  IN  HELLAS. 

there  roast  lamb,  but  we  have  no  such  heroic  roasters  as 
Ifindhere,"  was  the  reply.  "  Take  a  note  of  that,"  said 
the  Capitanos. 

Somehow  thus,  the  traveler  reflects,  were  roasted  the 
far-famed  hecatombs  at  sandy  Pylos  by  god-like  Nestor 
when  prudent  Telemachus  paid  him  a  visit.  Not  a  hun- 
dred bullocks  now,  but  one  little  lamb  composes  -the 
sacrifice  ;  certainly  a  great  diminution  iu  quantity,  very 
important  to  the  hungry  man ;  but  the  classic  eye  will 
here  see  again  the  Old,  though  so  much  diminished,  in 
the  New.  Meanwhile  a  Greek  neighbor,  Patroclus  him- 
self, not  his  wife  now,  comes  into  the  yard,  approaches 
and  kisses  me,  exclaiming,  Christos  aneste.  That  sudden 
osculation  came  down  upon  me  like  a  stroke  of  Fate  ;  my 
refractory  lips  would  not  respond  to  his,  but  instinctively 
muttered,  Kyrie  eleeson. 

From  every  inner  court  one  could  see  the  smoke  aris- 
ing from  the  fires  early  in  the  morning.  A  friend  passes 
and  takes  me  with  him  to  make  the  circuit  of  the  town. 
The  same  thing  is  going  on  everywhere  —  roasting  of 
far-famed  hecatombs.  In  one  place  fifteen  lambs  were 
held  over  an  enormous  bed  of  coals  by  fifteen  jolly  you'ng 
fellows,  who  offered  us  full  canteens  of  heart-lightening 
recinato,  and  sang  in  unison  a  Klephtic  song  against  the 
Turkish  dogs.  Sweetmeats  and  cakes  were  handed  around 
by  the  women,  who  saluted  me  gracefully  with  their 
Christos  aneste,  but  without  the  kiss.  It  is  a  joyous  fes- 
tival ;  the  happiness  is  increased  by  the  gratification  of 
the  appetite  for  animal  food ;  the  Lenten  restraint,  so  op- 
pressive, has  been  removed  from  the  world ;  the  very  body 
breaks  out  into  joy  and  claps  its  hands,  shouting, 
Christos  aneste. 

When  I  returned  home,  the  Capitanos  had  the  second 
lamb  over  the  coals,  which  still  glowed  with  a  festal  ar- 
dor under  the  dripping  carcass.  "Whose  hecatomb  is 
the  fairest  in  the  town?"  he  asked.  There  seems  to  be 
no  little  rivalry  in  this  matter,  and  I  was  glad  that  I  could 
answer  with  truth:  "Thy  hecatomb,  O  Capilauos!  ac- 
cording to  my  judgment  thou  art,  of  all  the  men  on  Par- 
nassus, the  true  hero  in  lamb  roasting,  the  very  Achilles." 


THE  GEE  AT  TEANSITION.  521 

Holding  his  spit  in  one  hand,  and  reaching  his  other 
hand  into  my  coat  pocket,  he  drew  out  my  note  book  and 
held  it  up  to  me,  saying:  "  Take  a  note  of  that  without 
delay,  O  Didascali." 

But  the  roast  is  done,  and  the  eyes  which  have  been 
watching  it  so  long,  are  ready  to  devour  it  literally  at  a 
glance.  We  all  light  upon  that  lamb  like  eagles  and 
young  eaglets  —  men,  women  and  children  ;  soon  the  bones 
are  picked  clean  of  every  fiber,  and  the  second  lamb 
pretty  well  clawed  up.  What  delight  the  penitential  body 
expressed  to  taste  animal  food  once  more!  Cliristos 
aneste  —  we  can  have  flesh  again..  The  bean  diet  is  past, 
it  represents  a  dead  world,  Kyrie  eleeson  !  Many  people 
were  hurt  by  the  fast,  health  was  injured,  spirits  were  de- 
pressed, it  was  a  kind  of  death.  But  now  it  is  over. 
There  is  to  be  henceforth  a  resurrection  out  of  it ;  joy  has 
returned,  melodiously  attuned  to  that  new  Parnassian  key- 
note, Christos  aneste. 

But  hark !  the  drum,  the  drum,  and  with  it  the  festal 
squeak  of  caramousa ;  it  is  the  music  of  the  town  march- 
ing to  the  place  of  the  chorus.  Best  of  all  we  can  now 
resume  the  song  and  dance  ;  no  sooner  is  the  appetite  sat- 
isfied than  the  poetry  breaks  out.  From  the  lanes  and 
the  houses  the  young  people  are  pouring  forth,  and  the 
old,  too  ;  like  bees  they  gather  to  their  hive,  which  is  the 
choral  ground,  there  is  the  true  Parnassian  honey  of  song 
and  festival.  For  many  weeks  there  has  been  no  chorus ; 
great  has  been  the  deprivation  ;  everybody  longs  for  the 
stately-stepping  pomp  and  the  grace-breathing  measure. 
Quite  as  much  [hunger  for  this  the  people  show  as  for 
animal  food ;  it  is  indeed  a  part  of  the  grand  resurrection. 
The  stranger  will  follow  the  music,  and  note  with  fresh 
delight  the  chorus ;  greater  zest,  a  new  life  it  seems  to 
have,  bursting  forth  in  the  spring  like  a  flower ;  still  it  is 
the  same  as  we  have  already  seen  and  described.  There- 
with we  have  completed  the  round  of  our  journey,  which 
has  returned  to  the  former  world  of  festal  joy  and  idyllic 
repose.  With  this  last  march  to  the  choral  place,  it  is 
manifest  that  our  Delphic  cycle  has  closed. 

Thus  the  Greek  peasant  celebrated  the  sufferings 


522  A  WALK  I2V  HELLAS. 

and  resurrection  of  Christ ;  he  does  so  with  an  earnest- 
ness and  intensity  of  adoration  which  sweeps  the  indif- 
ferent observer  into  a  strong  communion  of  feeling  with 
him,  both  of  sorrow  and  of  joy.  He,  the  humble,  often 
letterless  man,  seeks  to  be  crucified  and  resurrected 
anew,  as  if  his  salvation  depended  upon  his  deed ;  and 
who  will  dare  say  that  his  salvation  does  not  depend  upon 
his  deed?  He  is  acting  over  again  his  nation's  life,  he  is 
freeing  himself  from  the  death  of  the  old  Greek  Gods, 
from  the  death  of  the  old  Greek  world  ;  he  is  redeeming 
himself  from  Fate.  Each  man  is  passing  through  the 
trials  of  his  race  and  enacting  its  history ;  which  if  he  do 
in  truth,  he  can  never  fall  back  into  that  ancient  fateful 
world  of  his  ancestors,  but  comes  forth  fire-purified,  and 
rises  transfigured  into  this  new  life  where  is  his  home. 
Most  profound  is  his  instinct  in  this  matter,  one  can  feel ; 
the  Great  Example  he  must  appropriate,  or  perish ;  it  is 
that  which  bears  him  out  of  heathendom  and  saves  him 
from  destiny.  With  such  a  bulwark  in  his  soul,  no  ex- 
ternal power,  not  even  the  Turk,  has  destroyed  or  can 
destroy  him. 

In  this  way  every  peasant  becomes  a  conqueror,  con- 
queror of  the  ancient  world  which  was  so  long  wrestling 
with  despair  because  it  had  seen  its  deities  perish.  Im- 
agine its  condition !  What  is  highest  and  most  sacred  in 
a  people  is  blasted  by  a  destroying  breath  —  Fate  over- 
takes the  God.  There  is  a  feeling  of  hopelessness,  of 
utter  misery,  often  giving  away  to  demoniac  frenzy,  often 
turning  to  a  bitter  scoffing  wrath  against  all  holy  things. 
Most  melancholy  of  human  actions  is  the  one  vouched  for 
by  Polybius,  speaking  of  a  Macedonian  naval  commander : 
wherever  he  anchored,  he  built  two  altars,  one  to  Illegali- 
ty, the  other  to  Impiety;  to  these  he  sacrificed,  and  he 
worshiped  them  as  divinities.  God  was  indeed  dead ;  the 
awful  thought  must  have  been  burnt  into  the  very  soul  of 
the  time.  It  cannot  endure ;  the  supreme  question  with 
every  sincere  man  must  have  been:  How  can  such  a 
world  be  reached  in  its  despair  and  saved  ?  The  prayer 
is  for  the  New  Man,  the  New  Example,  who  will  conduct 
the  race  out  of  the  old  into  the  new  life. 


THE  GREAT  TRANSITION.  523 

Into  such  an  unhappy  world  the  New  Man  descends, 
suffers  what  it  suffered,  undergoes  what  the  Divine  had 
undergone.  As  the  old  Gods  died,  so  he  dies.  Thus  he 
enters  the  heart  of  the  time,  makes  himself  one  with 
the  time.  He  meets  Fate,  and  in  his  suffering  he  stands 
for  all  who  are  victims  of  Fate ;  truly  he  died  for  the 
whole  world,  for  Greece,  Judaea,  even  Rome,  all  of  which 
nations  were  overwhelmed  by  that  outlying  might  of  Des- 
tiny; for  this  Greek  peasant,  too,  threatened  still  by 
Fate,  who  now  seeks  by  fasting  and  much  ceremony  to 
pass  through  the  life  of  Christ  and  in  this  way  to  make  it 
his  own. 

The  New  Man  comes  into  the  world,  is  the  world  in  all 
its  finitude  and  suffering.  His  death  is  the  final  identi- 
fication of  himself  with  his  time  ;  he  elevates  himself  into 
the  type  of  his  race.  This  is  the  great  action,  greatest 
of  all  conceivable  human  actions,  so  great  that  it  is 
divine.  What  mortal  can  so  identify  himself  with  his 
fellow-man  that  he  in  his  suffering  can  become  the  bearer 
of  theirs  ?  It  is  still  your  problem  and  mine ;  every  act, 
every  word  of  ours  we  must  seek  to  raise  into  a  type 
which  is  no  longer  for  us  merely,  but  for  many,  yea  for 
all,  if  possible.  Who  can  make  his  life,  or  his  speech 
that  universal  poem  which  utters  the  hearts  of  his  people, 
and  therein  relieves  them  of  destiny  and  fills  them  with 
hope?  Yet  far  more  than  a  poem  is  this,  rather  the  basis 
of  all  poetry  for  all  time ;  that  person  is  the  hero  who 
endures  for  us  and  for  all.  He  who  can  make  himself  the 
bearer  of  men's  souls  is  the  only  true  Great  Man ;  he  is 
the  man  of  profoundest  thought  as  well  as  of  action.  The 
mightiest  faet  in  the  World's  History  we  must  recognize 
to  be  this  fact  of  Christ ;  it  means  that  mankind  have 
now  a  mediator  and  can  escape  from  Fate  ;  through  him 
the  old  is  transfigured  into  the  new.  Yet  not  for  a  few, 
but  for  all,  even  the  humblest ;  that  is  the  miracle  of  great- 
ness, he  died  for  all,  whether  they  acknowledge  it  or  not ; 
there  is  not  one  of  us  who  could  have  gotten  out  of  the  old 
world — we  would  be  there  now,  hemmed  in  by  Fate 
like  the  antique  man  —  if  we  had  not  come  through  the 
passage  opened  by  the  Universal  Man. 


524  A    WALK  72V  HELLAS. 

Though  by  death  he  identified  himself  with  a  perishing 
age,  he  did  far  more,  in  fact  the  supreme  thing ;  he  car- 
ried the  age  out  of  death.  For  what  is  it  that  dies  in  him  ? 
Nought  but  the  mortal,  perishable ;  it  is  the  death  of  this 
finite  sensible  form  which  lie  assumed  —  the  death  of 
death,  the  fate  of  fate.  Christ  died,  but  under  that  finite 
manifestation  is  revealed  the  Infinite  as  its  very  essence ; 
even  the  mortal  cannot  be  without  immortality  as  its  deep- 
hidden  foundation.  The  old  world,  tragic,  fateful,  is  thus 
led  out  of  its  despair  and  transfigured ;  and  the  Divine 
rises  up  anew  and  asserts  itself  the  most  enduring  of  all 
things  ;  through  death  is  the  resurrection.  The  hackneyed 
words  of  creed  thereby  become  endowed  with  living  breath, 
indeed  with  the  very  soul  of  the  World's  History:  he 
arose  from  the  dead,  appeared  to  his  friends,  was  trans- 
figured and  placed  on  the  right  hand  of  God.  In  fact 
Faith  must  be  filled  and  vivified  with  the  history  of  the 
race,  if  it  rise  above  a  hollow  barren  formalism,  or  be 
aught  more  than  blind  credulity. 

The  grand  transformation  is  to  make  every  individual  a 
bearer  of  the  Divine ;  to  have  him  manifest  the  death  of 
Fate.  He  beholds  it  all  in  the  story  of  the  Great  Sufferer, 
beholds  it  in  image ;  into  this  image  he  is  to  transmute 
himself  and  be  rescued.  Such  is  the  true  imitation  of 
Christ:  unless  you  make  yourself  divine  and  resurrect 
yourself  evei-y  day,  you  are  a  lost  soul.  The  life  of  Christ 
is  the  History  of  the  Divine  Idea ;  the  world  has  gone 
through  that  process,  is  going  through  it  still ;  you,  too, 
must  travel  the  same  journey;  it  is  that  which  can  make 
your  daily  struggle  the  victory  of  living. 

In  such  manner  the  Greek  peasants  on  Parnassus  have 
sought  to  impress  anew  the  image  of  the  great  rescue  upon 
their  hearts  for  many  days.  Therewith  we  have  made  the 
transition  out  of  Delphi,  indeed  out  of  the  ancient  world. 
A  new  joy  has  arisen,  not  the  old  Greek  joy  exactly, 
which  was  immediate,  the  direct  outpouring  of  a  strong 
sensuous  nature  ;  this  present  joy  comes  after  sorrow,  it 
is  the  joy  of  the  new  life  attained  through  suffering,  the 
joy  of  the  triumph  over  Fate.  This  is  the  return  to  the 
Divine  from  which  the  world  had  been  alienated ;  there  is 


THE  GREAT  TRANSITION.  525 

now  the  absolute  certainty  that  Fate  can  never  again  im- 
peril the  race,  that  it  is  dead  with  the  old  heathen  Gods. 

But  a  new  responsibility  has  come  with  the  new  time ; 
Fate  has  indeed  gone  within  the  man,  }ret  it  is  to  be  con- 
quered there,  where  it  is  conquerable  now  ;  every  person 
has  to  fight  over  again  within  himself  that  mightiest  bal  tie 
of  the  World's  History,  the  battle  against  Fate;  every 
mortal  man  must  fight  and  win,  and  thereby  become  im- 
mortal. Only  in  this  way  can  he  be  a  child  of  our  modern 
time,  which  is  itself  the  offspring  of  that  ancient  conflict. 
He  must  conquer  his  freedom  from  Fate  himself,  therein 
he  makes  himself  an  image  of  his  Great  Example.  80 
sa}rs  Delphi  to-day,  quite  obscurely,  it  is  true,  and  with 
strong  nasal  twang  of  the  priest ;  still  this  is  now  the 
Delphic  utterance. 

But  there  is  another  utterance,  far  more  distinct,  far 
more  complete,  and  to  many  of  us  far  more  congenial ;  it 
is  that  of  the  literary  bibles  of  our  modern  age,  speaking 
in  words  pointed  with  fire,  melting  with  infinite  tender- 
ness, revealing  the  profoundest  depths ;  —  those  bibles 
written  by  Dante,  Shakespeare,  Goethe.  They  all  declare 
the  golden  word  of  atonement,  of  redemption  from  destiny, 
of  a  rise  out  of  the  finite  into  the  eternal.  They  all  say 
iu  substance :  Transfigure  thy  deed  and  also  thy  word  ; 
raise  them  into  a  typical  thing  which  is  the  only  truth.  If 
thou  doest,  do  for  all,  let  thy  deed  be  universal ;  if  thou 
singest,  sing  for  all,  let  thy  joys  and  thy  sorrows  be  those 
of  thy  people,  of  thy  race,  if  thou  canst ;  if  thou  diest, 
die  for  all,  as  the  true  follower  of  that  one  Man  who  died 
for  mankind  and  was  God. 


s 


AT 
!/)S 

1JBRARY 


DP 
725 


1892 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000880711     7 


.. 


